


Failing Upward

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/F, F/M, First Time, Firsts, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal, Immortal John, M/M, Magical Realism, Memory Loss, Not much size difference, Parallel Universes, Science Fiction, Violence, au sherlock, insect bites, non-con for unwanted frottage, supernatural sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2018-12-15 10:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 40
Words: 204,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11804484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: When John Watson, a young med student who supports himself as a florist-by-day and musician-by-night, finds he is heir to supernatural powers that others would kill to possess, John’s life transforms into a mixture of comedy and terror. As he fights to understand what’s real and what’s imagined as he travels from one alternate universe to another, he finds that the key was there all along: his brilliant best friend, Sherlock Holmes, the man who becomes the touchstone for all that John is and ever will be.Set in current day cities and countryside of Michigan, this story blends romance, magical realism and science fiction with humor. 1st POV John Watson. Completed.





	1. Tabula Rasa

**Author's Note:**

> This started as an original fic that I really liked the premise of but never got read much at all (since I wrote it 15+ years ago, I’ve gotten a lot better as a writer). If you’re one of the many 20 people who read this before, I apologize if the plot is familiar. I loved the ideas and world in this fic, so much so, I couldn’t just let it go unread and decided to resurrect it. In the day I had two beta’s I should give some credit and thanks to also: Tiriel_35 and sierralois both who beta'd for me in my early days.
> 
> Now, I also have MrBotanyB to thank, who is more than a beta. Thanks to you. Applauds your hard work, kind words and soft, magic revisions.

Shock works that way. A person runs on automatic. I read that once. Like an old movie projection camera rolling in slow motion. Click, click, click. The film sticks. Celluloid melts. My fate--part of the mangled frames. I never believed in fate until now.

"Jonathan, you make your fate," my father used to say.

Tabula rasa. Blank slate. Clean slate. Or Fate? Was it easier to blame Fate? Or easier yet to blame myself? Some say there is no fate. Like my friend Sherlock. He says we make what we are. He believes in Tabula rasa.

I recall some of what happened before, but like celluloid shredded in that projector's wheel beyond repair I wonder--who I am, really?

That day it all began started uneventful. I opened the flower shop at 8 a.m. by flipping the "We're Open" sign in the front window. A quiet end of the work week, and the neatly written delivery orders for the day all organized--waiting for me to pull out from today's delivery box.

               Saturday.

               Deliver to, deliver when and deliver what.

               All written in black or blue ink. 

I'm a flower designer. At least that’s what I am for now. I’m other things too. My dad said "bigger things." I’m working my way through medical school, but I’ve always loved working in this flower shop. Years ago, when I decided to take the job at the greenhouse, the regulars at local bar my dad frequented teased me with cliché homosexual barbs: "Hey, gay boy, wanna twist my tulip?"  To my father, it was no joke. Hell, he asked me, "What are you goddamned some fag? Only pansies play with the flowers all day," and "do you have to wear that smock after work, too?" Instead he tossed away my day job, and said I was “working my way through college.” 

I saw it another way altogether.

This job ordered my life. I felt calm and centered arranging flowers. Little stress except on Valentine's and Mother's Day. Unlike that of a doctor where life and death are in your hands, I don’t have the world on my metaphorical shoulder here. And even though I’m only pre-med, I still worry about all that responsibility. For the most part, clientele in the floral industry are thoughtful and kind. After all, aren't they thinking of others when they say it with flowers? I loved that about this job. I don't make much. But my second job helps me pay the rent and college too. Let those who believe that only gay men work in flower shops be damned. Besides, every floral designer wears a smock--it's practical.

It's beauty. It's nature. It's trying to improve on beauty and nature. There are days I wonder, will this woman receiving this centerpiece think I've improved on the simple beauty or will she think it's a travesty? Is it silly to even try to improve on what God made?

Why stop there? How silly was it to even try to change my father's mind? He ignored this aspect of my life.

Then there are other days. The days I'd think about quitting both med school and the flower design business. Embrace what I really love: Playing guitar in a band. That, according to my dad, isn't respectable employment either. He wanted his son, "the doctor." He was right though. You can’t make a respectable living at playing the guitar unless you’re really, really lucky. Yes, talent is important, but it’s luck for the most part. At least it’s enough to help with cost of med school. I love it though. While the world is filled with talented washed up old musicians, I'm not that old yet, but yeah, some of the guys in the band are. They've dreamed that same old dream of fame, that same dangling golden carrot that keeps people chasing it. But Bart’s Place, the local dive, or what ever fucked up place our recent manager has us play, wouldn't pay the rent. Live entertainment seems preferable to dead floral recipients or bodies on a slab, _or_ jumping on stage more exciting than waiting on family members of the dearly departed, I can't build a future on nights playing on stage with the band. 

Designing wreaths. Making bud vases.Taking classes. Playing my Gibson. My dad had another word for a guy who does all these things: "bum."

I read over the orders and started working. Anderson will come in about 9:30 to deliver flowers, then water the greenhouse. I dislike Anderson. Well, I hate him really. He's the only one who I've disliked that works here or ever worked here since I started. Actually, I like about everyone. But Anderson? the male slut? I make an exception. I don't like his casual attitude toward women. He's a user. I've watched him seduce one nice girl after another, then throw them aside like old newspapers--the one too many came after he broke my sister Harry's heart. Although she wasn’t that innocent. Or straight. He actually seduced away the one she loved. He saw Harry’s girlfriend as a challenge. She saw it as her heart splattered on the pavement. I saw it as the beginning of the end of her happiness.

Anderson’'ll never change.

I had plenty of time to design the thirteen orders on the board--with a funeral at 11 and a couple of the orders asking for morning delivery. I noticed one client asked for last delivery of the day; I'd taken it. I can't remember when. Sometimes orders get as jumbled in my head as my scratchy handwriting on the forms.

I walked out the back room door down the well-worn stairs to the walk-in cooler. The chill brought out welcome goose bumps on my arms. The hot summer morning fell away inside. I stood a moment and gave myself a hug--just good to feel alive. I thought, hey, maybe this is kind of a gay to do, but I really needed to shake off the feeling I've had since the moment I got out of bed that morning. It’s the kind of uneasy feeling that makes a person think trouble is on the way--that this day is not gonna end well. I tried to put a name to the feeling, but it wouldn't come. Instead I bent and pulled three bunches of the baker fern from the large waxed box at my feet. I gathered seven yellow glads, a bunch of bronze mums, eight or so mixed carnations and pushed the feeling out of my head.

Hands full, I made my way back up the steps happy I didn't need to fill out any of the cards. My boss always bitches about my handwriting, so Mrs. Hudson will take pity on me and do it for me, all the while saying “It’s not my job” and reminding me that I write like I’m in the second grade.

Which should have made my dad happy. Proof I'm not a gay. Now, if I was, I'd have neat and flowery handwriting like Sherlock--not chicken scratch. I think.

Today I planned to get done and out of here fast and enjoy what was left of the nice, hot July day…cool lake water...hot sand...a few beers...relax. My summer break from classes would be over too soon. I really needed to enjoy what little free time I could eek out.

Saturdays at the flower shop were generally a bust anyway. Most afternoons, we employees closed the doors early without missing a single call. I hoped today would be the same. I always called the local funeral homes first and made sure nobody important died. When I'd tell most of my friends I have to do this, they'd tell me it sounds crass, but I explained, that's the way this business works. The only person who thinks it’s not crass is Sherlock. But he’s a pragmatic reporter who lives for his crime beat. He actually gets excited when someone dies.

I was on the phone taking an order when Anderson pulled up in the shop's Michigan, cancer ridden, Ford van. Brakes announcing his arrival from halfway down the block. Mrs. Hudson needed to invest in new brake shoes. The piece of shit delivery truck had been resuscitated too many times over. Anderson lovingly referred to the van as his Long Tall Sally and wouldn’t let Mrs. Hudson get rid of it. I think Sally's about the only girl in a hundred mile radius that he hasn't tried to screw. Or maybe he has. I know for a fact he’s screwed inside her.

Anderson stumbled up the steps. Jeez this guy never quits partying. He smelled of a special blend of Old Spice and Aqua Velva, completely out of place on the flower room floor. He deluded himself into thinking that splashing around aftershave after one of his regular benders, covers stale cigarette smoke, pot and whiskey.

I finished taking the order long before he schlepped up the steps.

"Late night again," I said.

"It was fantastic, wow. You should have been there, wow. The music was so loud I can still feel the vibration in my brain, man. Wow…"

God. Did he consciously punctuate his sentences with "wow," or was he really that fucking stupid?

"Anyhow, did you know that the weirdest thing happened last night," he said eyes shut, rubbing his forehead. "Wow, me and Sherlock were sittin' at the bar.”

“You were with Sherlock?”

“Yeah. Jealous?”

I ignored it. Anderson was being his usual dick self.

“We were talkin' to this dude…I can't remember his name. Anyhow this dude asks me, 'Don't you work at that flower shop?' and I say, 'You mean The Bakerstreet Floral and Greenhouse?' and he answers, 'Yeah, I thought I saw you today when I ordered flowers. You're supposed to deliver them to my mom tomorrow.' I said, 'Wow.'"

"What the fuck's weird about that?"  I studied Anderson. His eyes shut, shifting beneath his lids--a confused frown on his face, then a bit of clarity--he remembered and his eyes popped open in surprise.

"It's not what he said, it was how he said it! The way he acted," he hesitated, waiting for the words to come. "After that guy went back to his table, he kept staring at us all night long. Sherlock said he even followed him into the men’s room. I thought the guy was pervert or something, but Sherlock said he was suspicious in other ways."

"Wish I was there," I said. Oh hell, why even try to hide the sarcasm in my voice? I sighed and added, "Sounds like I missed a lot of fun."

Anderson looked directly at me for the first time. "Fuck you. I'm getting to the point. He _asked_ about you," he said.

"What?"

"Yeah, he asked me about the short, good-looking well-built young guy with the sandy hair and intense blue eyes. I didn’t think he meant you, but Sherlock said he did."

Shit, some other old fart thinking I was gay again? It happened more times than I could count. I looked over at the flowers ready for delivery on the floor and blinked, trying to figure out which order was his.

"He wanted to get your name and asked how long you'd worked here. You know, questions like, if you grew up here and how long you’d been in college, stuff like that."

"You didn't tell him anything did you?" I fumbled with the corner of my smock. Shit.

"I told him your name is all, and maybe your address," Anderson looked down at his feet, scratching his head.

"You don't go telling people who you think are perverts other people's names and addresses! Anderson, you giant prick! What were you thinking? Or should I say drinking?" I could feel my cheeks flush and pushed my hands into my jeans to still them. I could have throttled him. The dumb fuck. Well, he wasn't a friend of mine even if he pretended to be to get girls--a friend wouldn’t share that information.

"Actually, I was up to my seventh shot of whiskey about then," he admitted. I began searching my brain trying to determine who this stranger could be. Which order was this that I took?

"About how old is this guy?” I asked. “What did he look like?"

"I don't know. I don't check guys out. Ask Sherlock."

"Jeez, you don't remember his friggin' face? Were you that drunk?" I studied him. He probably was that drunk. His face had that ashen I've-just-spent-the-morning-puking-my-guts-out look. Still, he had an incredibly high tolerance to alcohol; I probably would too if I drank seven nights a week. I hesitated then said, "Sherlock will know."

"Well, he didn't drink much last night," he paused. "He was the designated driver."

"He's _always_ the designated driver, he _never_ drinks, and he _always_ remembers," I said as I walked over the business phone.

"What are you gonna do? Make a personal call on store time?"

"Shut up. My iPhone is dead. You gave out my personal information to a stranger, and then you give me crap about a phone call? Now, give me his number so I can call him."

"Surprised ya don't have it memorized. He’s your _best_ friend."

"It’s in my phone. I don’t remember it. It’s in your phone, too. Look at it up and give it to me. Now."

"Ok, you’re such a tight ass,” he said. “It's 269-555-5463, but I guarantee you he's still in bed sleeping--we didn’t get home until late."

"Too bad," I pointed receiver at the showroom floor. "You better get those deliveries out. The Moore funeral is at 11:00, so you'd better move your ass."

"Ok...sorry," he bent down to pick up the arrangement off the floor. I noticed he was holding his head in pain as he did. I couldn't help wishing his brains would splat out on that dirty door runner.

"Wow, you can be so touchy sometimes. Are you PMSing it or something?"

"Shut up!" I threw my pen as hard as I could at him, and it clipped him on the very same temple the stupid ass had rubbed a moment before. Fuck, that felt good. I turned and dialed Sherlock, when it crossed my mind that throwing a pen might be a bit passive aggressive.

"After you get done talking to Sherlock, maybe you should call '1-800 find a gay lover.' Oh, wait. You don't have to! You're already calling Sherlock!" He grabbed the funeral basket and stumbled out the door fast.

The phone rang and rang, and I was about to hang up when I heard Sherlock's voice.

"Hello? Sherlock?" I asked before realizing I'd gone to voicemail. Why do people put stupid recorded messages that sound like it’s them answering? I chewed my lip waiting for that damn tone. Either he must never delete his messages or else he's really popular.

"Sherlock? This is John. Call me. It's about last night. Anderson gave my name to some shit at the bar, and I guess you were there. And why in the hell were you with him? You hate him more than I do." I looked up, and Anderson was coming back to load up more deliveries. "I want to know what Anderson told that man… exactly. Bye."

"I said I was sorry," he whined. "Wow. Don't be so intense."

I wanted to fill the final order I'd taken before Brainless got back from deliveries. I did that then went down in back to clean the cooler. Hopefully he would be out delivering for a while and leave me the hell alone. He was useless on the floor with customers. As long as he stayed out in the greenhouse or delivered, I was fine. He spent more time trying to pick up female college customers than waiting on the rest of the trade. And besides my boss, Mrs. Hudson, didn't like him answering the phone. The last time we let Anderson take a call, he insulted the district representative of FTD, saying that wearing a hat with “fucking Mercury wings” on it were “gay.”

I didn't want to talk to him right now. To distract myself, I dug into the weekly cooler cleaning. This, my least favorite job at the shop, was always left for the designer who worked Saturday. Usually me. I especially hated old baby's breath buckets. At room temperature the stems "mature" into a skunky smell within 24 hours. Left on the showroom floor then stored in the cooler a week, the lacey flowers acquire an engaging scent--something like cat piss...and the water it’s in? Worse. I left the baby's breath for last. Anderson got back from deliveries in time to see me dump the buckets down the drain and wash them out with bleach. I smiled. It wasn’t a real smile, and he knew it. He went straight to the greenhouse to water. Yeah, go hide, you ass.

Today I decided I hate Anderson more than any other person on earth.

When I'm pissed, there's only one thing to do that really makes me happy besides a good fuck and that’s eating.

With no one “capable” around to cover me to go out for lunch today, I packed a peanut butter sandwich, potato salad, Cheetos and jumbo Butterfinger bar. I left the salad and ate the junk food. What I really wanted was fried chicken, potatoes and gravy. I swiped all the stems off the counter to the floor and took a seat in the back room, eating Cheetos pretending they were extra crispy chicken. Anderson must have snuck back through the back greenhouse, because I heard him whistling “Bohemia Rhapsody” off key while watering.

The rest of the afternoon I spent watching the faded battery powered clock. He took off to deliver again. Finally, it was 3 p.m. Orders were up and done and out. All but one.  The one left for “the last delivery of the day.” It sat there waiting for Anderson. Hell, I sat there waiting for Anderson. There weren't _that_ many deliveries.

I'd just hung up from the customary Saturday funeral home call when Sherlock finally called me back.

"Anderson told him your name," Sherlock said, "and how long you worked at the flower shop, and by the tenth shot of whatever it was the other guy was buying, he told him your life story. I told the imbecile to shut up, but you know Anderson--he drips idiocy when he drinks. And when he’d not drunk too."

"So this guy was buying Anderson drinks?"

"Yeah, he bought a more than a few. Sorry John, but when he asked Anderson where you lived, he blurted out the street before I could drag the dimwit off the stool."

"What a lush," I realized I was fumbling with the corner of my smock again and stopped since it might look kinda gay.  "What did this guy look like?"

"Older guy, good looking. Maybe in his late forties, hair graying. You know distinguished looking. Longer hair than you'd expect someone his age--maybe one of those old hippies. Nice expensive suit though. An Armani. And his shoes were Gucci."

"I remember him now. He ordered the bud vase with the three yellow roses. He picked them out himself and wrote the card," I glanced down on the delivery room floor. "It's the last delivery of the day. Anderson said that the flowers were for this man’s mom. Is that right?"

"Yeah, I think so. Anderson talked to him a while. The guy was from money, owns a calico cat, he’s straight, but he did follow me into the bathroom after I pulled Anderson off the bar stool."

"Anderson said he was a pervert."

"Anderson calls everyone a pervert. And he’s the real pervert. At first I thought he was one of those in-the-closet types and might be trying to get some action in the bathroom. Then he just took a piss. Didn’t even give me a glance. He’s not gay," Sherlock said.

"Wait… someone's on the other line. Gotta go. Thanks Sherlock."

"Don't mention it."

I picked up the other line.

"John?"

I knew it.

It was Anderson.

"It's my Sally,” he wailed. “I think she's gone. She started making this grinding noise, then smoke started pouring out of her. She's broken down here on Woodward Street."

"Tom's Tavern is on Woodward Street, and I hear Tom in the background. Get back to the shop now! That excuse sucks. You used it two weeks ago. Funny how Sally broke down on the same street as your favorite bar. Twice."

"No kidding?! What a coincidence!" Anderson said.

"You ass! Like you didn’t have enough last night! You get back here. The last delivery is from that weird guy,” I yelled into the phone. “You are not going to stick me with this one!"

"I'm really telling the truth. Sally is busted." I heard his slurred voice and imagined throwing something heavier than my pen at him, like throwing my fist into that smug nose.

"Anderson, I swear, I'll tell Mrs. Hudson you did this, and you'll get fired." That sounded thin.

"What? What was that? Is this the guy who makes personal calls on company time? I'm sorry that Sally broke down, but I am stuck here until Ballard's Towing can get to me. Should be about, say, 5 p.m."

"Five! No! I don't want to deliver these flowers."

"Listen, I'm sorry this happened. But it's just his mother, not him."

"God! I don't believe you. All right, I want to get out of here before five. I'll drop the flowers off."

"Don't ever let anyone tell you that you're a shithead, okay John?"

"Go. To. Hell. Anderson."

"Bye, sweetie!"

"Fuck you," I heard the phone click, and stared at the receiver. "You ass hole."

I was angry. More than angry. I went to the cash register, put the cash drawer away in the safe, grabbed my keys out of my pocket while saying every word of profanity I knew. I picked the bud vase off the floor, slapped over the "We're Open" sign over to “We’re Closed,” then took out the last delivery of the day for that lazy no-good Anderson.

\-------------------------

Now I'll have to wash my car besides being inconvenienced.  Of course the delivery had to be a rural one.

After working in the floral business for years, I understood rural addresses--odd on one side of the road, even on other, numbers east and west, letters north and south, county line the divider. I pulled the card off the flowers to second check the street name. Written clearly on the envelope was 48965 North 43rd. I drove down 43rd Ave and just past 48922 on the left-hand side. I knew the house I was searching for was on the opposite side and close. I drove right by the dented mailbox before realizing I'd gone past the address. Checking my cracked rear view mirror for other cars or large farm equipment, I backed up. The dirt driveway lay hidden behind an old sugar maple tree next to the letterbox. I turned in and bounced down the washboard driveway, praying my car’s shocks would survive. Would this drive ever come to an end? The way curled left around a small pond--grass and tall weeds ate into the drive. The guy sure didn't help around his mother's much or anyone else for that matter. I put the car in park and pulled the card off the arrangement and read the name. Lestrade.

I grabbed the bud vase box and got out of the car. The house looked vacant--faded tied bundles of Newsweek, Time and the local papers stacked up high against the railings on the porch. People didn’t get actual magazines much anymore. It wasn't vacant though. I heard Green Day's "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" drifting faintly out from the white paint-chipped window frame.

I stepped up and knocked on the wooden screen door as Billie sang louder.

I wrapped on the door again--harder this time. I was about to leave the vase on the steps with a quick note when she came to the door.  She sure didn't look like anybody's mother.

"Emma Lestrade?" I asked. Tall, strawberry-haired with stunning blue eyes and pouting lips. Skin perfect ivory with rich pink undertones and light freckles sprinkled her nose. Beautiful--without one swipe of artificiality. Her matronly apron and plain a-line dress didn't hide the classic hourglass figure beneath.

"No, I'm Glenda. Are those for Emma?"

"Yes, ma'am." I couldn't guess her age. Her dress was old, yet she looked timeless.

"Thanks so much." She played with her reading glasses to get a better look at the flower shop's packing box. She silently read our “propaganda” about the flower shop (shop name, phone number, address and some horse shit about wiring flowers anywhere in 24 hours).  Then she looked up and studied me with the same intensity as she had just studied the box.

"You're welcome," I said. The lady started to close the door and then hesitated.

"I see you have greenhouses… do you know anything about growing roses?"

"A bit, we raise them. The ones you have in that bud vase we grew."

"How perfect! Would you mind much coming out to the back garden and looking at ours? I'm afraid we have some rather sick tea roses. Em is beside herself. Her grandma gave her the cuttings from them…won a distinguished award in London for them. She was a true horticulturalist. Let me just set these down, and if you would be a sweetheart, follow me out to the garden?"

I wanted to get to the beach and beers, but no need to be rude--and I was here on business. Damn that Anderson. I followed her.

"Yes, right back here is our little garden." We walked on what looked to be deer path through the tall grass and weeds--I yanked off burdocks that leapt up and stuck to my crusty old levis as we walked. As I stumbled, I noticed some beautiful perennials among the weeds. This once was a garden, too. Beebalm, coneflowers and different varieties of hostas spotted the pathway but were being choked out by wild garlic. And there were bee hives. Sherlock would love it. In front was a large fieldstone wall with old grape vine, nightshade and Virginia creeper invading its crevices. I stepped around the poison ivy. As I walked behind this “Lestrade woman” watching her nice hind end sway back and forth, I noticed the “deer path” was not a deer path at all. Years of rain and topsoil half buried the old yellowed bricks of the walkway. So this was Glenda, the good witch from the North walking ahead of me! I half laughed at the thought. She was beautiful--had an other-world look to her. She would look right at home inside a bubble--all she needed was the silken gown and a wand.

Or maybe not. I recalled Anderson and the man with too many questions. It didn't help that I stayed up half the night before watching an old Alfred Hitchcock movie, _North by Northwest_.  I imagined the woman ahead of me as something evil. Glenda was not what she appeared... I wondered if she had a dagger in that paisley apron. Next she'll turn slowly and pull that six inch shiny dagger out, and I'll be so much chuck roast.

I ducked. Hey, wake up. It's just a low elm branch.

I ducked again and pushed aside the vines that were in the way of a threshold. Was I daydreaming again? It did look a bit like Oz.

" _This_ is a _little_ garden?" I wondered aloud. "Why, it’s magnificent. If my mom was alive and saw this, she’d swoon and be in paradise."

"Why, thank you," she said. "That is so sweet. I didn't know young people still used the words like 'swoon' anymore. Hmmm… The roses are over here. Here, yes. As you can see they are in dreadful condition, dreadful. We are stymied as to what ails them." The Lestrade woman even sounds like Glenda the good witch.

I bent down for a look and touched the leaves. The brown edges crumbled beneath my fingertips. I noted the buds on the plants were malformed and turned the leaves examining them further.

"I don't see any pests," I said. " It seems to only be affecting this particular variety here and none of the others. No, I'm sure it's not pests gnawing--and definitely not mildew. I'm no expert though. I'll ask my boss on Monday. I'll need to take a sample of the leaves. She'll probably have to come out and look at this herself to make a diagnosis. I'll need your phone number."

"It's 555-3691. Here, I'll write it out for you," she reached into her apron. I flinched. Good. No knife. Just a pad and paper. Over-active imagination running away again. And too many outings with Sherlock. That’s another story for my blog.

"No, that's fine. I have a memory for numbers, phone numbers. I don't forget them," I said. "They just stick in my brain along with all the useless trivia I know--like the complete history of the Beatles and Doctor Who, or everything you ever wanted to know but were afraid to ask about the World War II."

"That's nice," she said. I realized I was rambling and standing up I caught my Levi's on one of the afflicted rose branches. As I pulled it off, a thorn caught in my finger.

"Oh dear," Glenda said. "I'm sorry."

"I work in a flower shop. Happens to me all the time." True, but I still hated it. I caught the thorn between my front teeth and pulled, spitting it out into the poison ivy. Sometimes the tip of the thorn will break off and start an infection. I'd always bleach my hands at work, partly to get off the green tinge that comes from cutting stems off flowers all day, and partly to way-lay any infections from noxious rose thorns.

I said goodbye and walked to my car, sucking at the sore spot on my damaged finger. She seemed nice enough. Distracted, I put the car in reverse and backed out. Gripping the steering wheel on the way down River Drive, I brushed the tender part of my finger and felt an invisible spark of pain. Yep, part of that darn thorn was still lodged there, probably festering already.

That's when I noticed the card sitting on the passenger seat.


	2. Man, meet Llama

I only held the card up to the white light of the windshield for an instant and of course that's when the llama walked in front the car. I never did find out whose llama it was, or where it went after I hit it doing about 48 mph. The beast ran off. 

I wasn't as lucky.

Fuzzy llama karma--next thing I remember, I was taking baby steps in a yellowed hospital gown with my ass sticking out, being lead by a pretty student nurse and telling her "I really gotta piss" with absolutely no shame. Then suddenly I remember, I  _ should  _ be embarrassed. I stopped, reached around and clutched the draft together. I flashed-back to five years ago, snapping the shower curtain shut with my sister Harry’s face screaming, “don't use all the hot water!” 

I suddenly I didn't feel the urge to pee anymore. I asked how long I've been here, and the cute nurse scratched her nose and said, "Three days I think." 

Three days gone. A blank. Nothing. I was suddenly cold. What was the air conditioning set at in this place? The IV leaking into my veins, helped chill me too. Each step shot pain up my leg into my groin. Every breath felt like a long sharp needle driven into my right lung. All this because I just  _ had  _ to read a little bit of the card.

"Sit down--" I moaned. "I need to sit." My confused, pained face told the student nurse she'd better get someone who knows more than her.

As I tried to find comfort on the rock hard hospital bed, my head worse, I filed away this experience for future medical reference: be empathetic to every patient's’ situation.

I learned the rest of my story from the big night nurse named Bernice who the student nurse corralled to take care of me. Bernice was one of those people who made it their business to know everything about everybody. She knew about Lenny, the night watchman, who took home McCall's Magazines on the sly to his invalid mom. She knew about Jill, the dietitian, who ate off the patients' trays because she gave all her money to her alcoholic husband.

 

In her big deep voice, Bernice told me I've been talking like a drunk to a bartender ever since I got here, and how happy she was to fill my glass. I confided about my parents and my family, about their death. Apparently, I told her about my  _ boyfriend _ . 

I corrected her, saying, "Don't you mean my  _ girlfriend _ ?" She winked at me.  _ Not her, too.  _

She must have meant Sherlock. He did have a habit touching me a lot. And yeah, he was out and gay. And well, maybe he did have a bit of a thing for me. But he never would act on it. He valued my friendship as much, if not more, than I did. The man was good looking. He come get pretty much his pick of any man he wanted (or woman if he really wanted). He didn’t because, most people were what he called “idiots.” And while to most people  _ he  _ was a huge, standoffish prick, to me he was all touchy-feelly and friendly. The fact that he tolerated me more than anyone else and took me along on many of his “crime scene adventures” as a freelance reporter made most people think there was something more to us. It’s just I like women. A lot. But I could see how Bernice might get the wrong impression. We were close friends.

I also decided I'm a bit scared of Bernice. She could possibly beat me up. Possibly--considering the way she just tossed me on my side to move my pillow like I was some twig. The woman could be dangerous if she wanted to be although I think she liked me enough to not snap me in half. She winked at me, then made a comment about "having lots of gay friends." 

I said to her, "But I'm not gay." 

She winked at me again and said, "Sure you aren't, hon. And that wasn't your boyfriend here visiting you either." I didn't bother to argue with her about this. I decided, better to ignore her. I asked her to tell me what happened the night of the accident, and she gladly told me.

Seemed directly after the accident, I knocked on a farmer's door, and he refused to let me in. Bernice said I gave a wonderful performance for Old MacDonald, who peeked through his moldy door curtains then pinched them shut. The farmer finally called the police, and the police called an ambulance. I guess I was beating on his door like a rabid maniac. Can't say as I blamed him for not letting me in. Most people don't come a knockin' with blood all over their shirt and jeans unless they're in some bad B film with a guy in a hockey mask close behind. 

Bernice told me I kept saying to anyone who would listen something about a _ "damn prick."  _ She gave me a lecture not judging those people less fortunate than us, and that the farmer couldn’t help he was ignorant. You know, love thy neighbor even if he won’t open the door. She must have thought I needed religion or something. I still couldn’t get her to understand that I had a thorn prick my finger. Ironically, that thorn in my finger hurt more than my concussion and the punctured lung together. It was affecting my whole hand and spreading up my arm. 

Bernice said I nagged her along with every nurse and half the orderlies on the floor for a mirror, too. At first they'd get me a mirror or take me to the bathroom to show me my reflection. Later, tired of my repeated requests, they ignored me. Still, I kept asking over and over, "Is my nose broken?"

I didn't feel the sharp pain in behind my eyes until then; I never knew a person could recall pain like they recall a memory. I’d have to file that one away for future reference when I’m a doctor too. I bet Sherlock would like to know that as well. I reached for my nose and a slicing pain shot through my skull. I asked her if it  _ was _ broken. The nurse said no--"but you look like shit." I didn't know RNs on duty were allowed to cuss, but who was gonna stop  _ her _ ? 

 

"My head hurts. And my hand. And. Actually, my whole body hurts. Do you think I could get something more for the pain?" I asked her. 

That's when I got lecture number two from Big Nurse Bernice on the evils of drugs. She assumed for some reason that I was under the dark influence of some illegal substance at the time of my accident. She said I came into the emergency room babbling about not only about some  _ prick _ but also about a  _ llama, Glenda the Good Witch _ and  _ Rock Hudson _ , and that I was in “a highly agitated state.” Shit, I felt agitated right then, but not because I was strung out. 

I  _ did _ remember the llama and Glenda. Vaguely. Not sure about Rock Hudson. But I did watch  _ North by Northwest _ , but that was with Cary Grant not Rock. I always got those two mixed up.

Bernice went to get the doctor on call. He came in to check on me--his name was, get this, Dr. Doctor. I started to laugh. Was I in some old Marx Brother's film or a  _ Saturday Night Live _ skit? 

He read over my charts, wondering why I'm laughing. My imagination flashed to Groucho with a cigar saying,  _ “Either this man is dead, or my watch has stopped.” _

Dr. Doctor told me I had been in shock, and it’s possible from my reaction, I still was-- _ No shit,  _ I think.  _ Wonder why I'm laughing like an idiot? Flying twenty feet out the windshield into a row of trees might scramble your brain, too.  _ I decided when I become a doctor, I’d have a lot better bedside manner than Dr. Doctor.

Then I asked what his first name was. He said, “Dat.”

I laughed so hard and hurt so bad I threw up all over his feet.

He looked down in disgust and explained I should get a ticket for not wearing a seatbelt. Who was he, Ralph Nader? I thought, what's going on here? First I'm lectured by Bernice the nurse on the evils of drugs and now Dr. Dat Doctor on proper seat restraints. Weren't these health professionals? I might have to reassess my future profession choice. So, was I unsafe at any speed? My mind saw in some skewed way, I  _ was _ fortunate. Bernice told me about my car--landing upside down in the river bed after going down the ravine. My poor dead Mustang's top, crushed down into the driver's seat. My car was most likely totaled. If I  _ hadn't _ gone out the windshield, I might have been totaled, too. I always wear a seat belt. It’s just for some odd reason I was distracted and didn’t strap it on. 

Then there was the cost of replacing or repairing my car. My head hurt more. How much would that cost on top of my hospital bills? 

Money. And lack of it. So the next question to the doctor was how long much longer I had to stay. He was noncommittal--"A few more days," he said, shrugging. After all, he was a doctor and I wasn’t close to being one yet--he probably owned a half million dollar home at least. Only in America. He wouldn't be concerned. Keeping me and my sore body in the hospital lined his pockets, but it was costing me. My deductible was high, but when I worked for not a lot more than minimum wage at a greenhouse, I guess I should count myself lucky to have any insurance at all. Times like these I seriously considered enlisting in the military to help pay for college. 

After Dr. Doctor left, I was alone in my room. I still got no peace. Taking a simple breath hurt. My finger throbbed--I imagined I was Giovanni in  _ Rappaccini's Daughter _ , and the thorn like some poison coursing through my veins. I decided sleep was the only answer, but the cold streak of pain refused to fade. I pressed the call button and begged for "good" drugs so I could sleep. 

Bernice was kind. She gave me a Demerol injection straight into my IV.   


I woke, and my IV was gone. It was morning. The nurse on duty told me they might send me home since the doctor had written up my discharge--but I couldn’t go until after a psychologist visited me and discussed my so-called  _ drug problem _ .   


What the fuck was this? I had no drug problem. But I was too tired and in too much pain to argue. So when the psychologist, Ella Thompson, came confidently into my room, I just sat, listened and answered her questions about my “addiction.”  I was fine with it all until she asked me what drug I'd taken the night of the accident because toxicology said the substance in my system was "unknown." I looked at her--confused. She was a nice enough woman, but she had it all wrong.

I lost it.

"Listen," I said. "I don't  _ take _ drugs. Okay, I admit I've smoked pot before, but not in a while. That day I was working and on a delivery. I didn’t drink. I didn’t take anything. Not even an aspirin. I was completely straight."

My eye twitched when I said the word straight. Fuck.

 

She nodded like she didn’t believe me, then typed in something on her iPad, and I heard her mumble "taking drugs at work." I frowned. She looked up. 

"The first step, John, is admitting you have a problem," she said. 

I groaned. Silence. She was waiting for me to either have some breakdown, rant or admit I smoked crack or something. I didn't give. I could wait as long as she could.  _ Maybe. _ I stared up at the clock on the wall. 

But I decided I wanted to get discharged today, so I calmed down and explained it rationally to her. 

"I have no drug problem,” I said. “I didn't take any drugs. I don’t know what that unknown substance is, but the fact that it can’t identified doesn’t mean I’m an addict. I’m pre-med. I’ve taken enough chemistry classes to know that some substances could come up as unknown in toxicology." I held my mouth firm. At least I hoped it looked firm to her, so she'd fuck off. I did my doctor face. She used her magic fingers some more on her iPad, then wrinkled her nose one more time. 

"Alright, Mr. Watson. But if you ever want to talk, here’s my card," she said and handed it to me, then left my room. 

I needed a ride home. Any other time, I’d call Sherlock. And really, I should. But a part of me didn't want Sherlock to, and I couldn't exactly say why. Well, yes maybe I could say why. Thing is I was tired of hearing how we were a couple. I wasn't attracted to him no matter how beautiful a man he was. Just because he looked good in that coat with the collar up with those cheekbones, I wasn't having those feelings, and I didn't want Sherlock to get the wrong idea that I felt something for him that I didn’t. Neither of us needed that pressure or other people pointing it out even more. A bit a space might be a good idea in my weakened state. Especially after Bernice the nurse told me he was up here visiting. A lot.    


So I decided to call Mary. I picked up the phone to call for a ride, hoping she was around come and get me. The cell rang and I left a message. I tried each of the guys from the band, one by one. All either were working or not able to pick me up. My list of friends grew shorter and shorter. Mrs. Hudson couldn’t get free until later. I looked at the prescription in my hand for pain killer and wondered why they're sending me home so soon, but they always send you home early when you belong to an HMO and your insurance sucks.

I resorted to calling Anderson since it was his day off. He was drunk already. 

I sat feeling sorry for myself because I had no friends (or enemies) to take me home, and I didn’t want to call Sherlock. I didn't want to wait any longer, so I called a Yellow Cab. 

A nurse helped me find my clothes. I was surprised to see someone brought some of my clothes from home--a nice gesture since the ones I was wearing in the accident were bagged and bloody. My shirt was a mess and jeans torn. The RN on duty called for a medical assistant named Joe who took me for a ride in the wheelchair down to the lonely lobby. I waited for the taxi in the front of the hospital like some invalid. I thought, what no goodbye from Bernice? Joe handed me my flowers I got, making me feel more rejected than I already was. You'd expect from working at a flower shop, I'd get lots of people sending me flowers. Hell, no. 

Two stinking deliveries? I felt bitter. I worked in a flower shop  _ because _ I liked flowers. Maybe some guys would feel offended by getting them. Not me.

With my good hand, I held onto the planter--a gift from the band. The card read, "Get Well Soon" with all their names on it--none of them in their own handwriting. I held an arrangement of a dozen red carnations steady between my legs. At least the staff at Bakerstreet's all signed their names--even Anderson. I thought at least Sherlock would send something, but then again, he wasn’t the type to send flowers.

He was the type, however, who thought taking me along to see blood and murder was the “best time” I could ever have or imagine. And he was right. Thing was, Sherlock was more than just a crime reporter, and that’s what got him (and me) into trouble. First time he solved a case and rattled off how the murder “did it,” he got arrested (not to say, he’s never been arrested since). Then he deduced the detectives. Apparently blurting out that the lead detective is having an affair with his partner’s wife, gets you released from jail, but also gets you a fat lip. He’s fucking brilliant, but he doesn’t know when to shut up. That’s not unusual, he often becomes the number one suspect since he knows “things” the detectives don’t think he could possibly know. Area police and detectives hated and loved him. It didn’t take long for word to spread from department to department. You have a cold case nobody can solve? Call Sherlock Holmes.

The most surprising part to me is that he reports crimes objectively, yet he’s usually that one who solves them. He writes the stories without inserting himself, or how he solved them. He’s a good reporter, but he’s a world class detective that know one knows exists. But Sherlock doesn’t care about that. He only cares about “the game.”

The cab pulled up, and I struggled in. What little cash I had left in my wallet, I ended up handing to the driver. I felt even more pitiful.

I got home, and I found a vase of flowers sitting inside my enclosed porch--Anderson, what a lazy son of a bitch. Couldn't even wait to give them to me in person. 

Man I hurt when I bent down to pick the suckers up--three yellow roses in a bud vase with no card attached. Stupid Anderson probably lost the card. Then I remembered I needed to tell Mrs. Hudson about the sick roses at the Lestrade’s. I  _ didn't _ really need to tell her about the "misplaced" card. I couldn't remember what happened to it; what it said, or if I read it even after all the agony looking at that card had cost me. 

All I remembered was the card, the light, and the llama. 

Why did the llama cross the road?  _ To get to its llama mama.  _

What sounds do llama's make when struck by a car going 45?  _ Snap, crackle and pop.  _

Now, this haunted bud vase minus one card? Shit. Maybe this was from Sherlock, but he wouldn’t send  _ roses _ . And yellow represents jealousy, which is something he’d know in that encyclopedia of a brain he has. Then like a shot, I remembered--my beloved guitar was in the backseat! Fuck!  _ Must be _ it was bad Karma trying to read a customer's card. Probably bad Karma sent directly from the Dali Llama himself. Not that I haven't been guilty of reading a card before (or any of my compatriots either), but one punctured lung, two black eyes, banged up foot, a dead Mustang and one hell of a headache seemed a high enough price… but please, Lord, not my guitar, too! And look--my finger was festering and what ever infection I had was spreading up my arm. _ Instant Karma gonna get you _ … Well, maybe I'd shine on, but it'd have to be later. 

Right now I had to go throw up again.

\------------------

I had a few visitors that week. Mary came by that first evening. She’d stopped at the hospital and found out I was discharged. She made me dinner. The next day some of the guys from the band came over with a pack of beer that they drank themselves since I didn't think mixing my painkillers with alcohol was a good idea. I guess that was my only “drug problem.” I called Mrs. Hudson on Friday and told her I thought I could come back to work Monday. I also thought I should pass on the info about about Mrs. Lestrade's roses. 

Sherlock texted me a lot but was busy on this murder case, so he didn’t stop up. He did keep asking me questions about decomposition in marshy lake water and temperature changes. I didn’t ask him about the flowers.

The with no card. 

I wasn't sure I wanted to know who they were from--three yellow roses. The same as my delivery that day. Was this some kind of sick joke?

When I accused Anderson of losing the card, Mrs. Hudson got all quiet and put him on the phone. Couldn't she just look up the order and tell me what the card said?

I heard her in the background on the canned intercom calling him out of the greenhouses to the workroom. 

"What's up, John?" he asked out of breath.

 

"Where is the card for the roses I got?" I asked. "There isn't a card. Who are they from?"

“Well…”

“Come on. Who are they from?”

"I'm not supposed to say." 

“So it  _ was _ the weirdo from the bar,” I said. “How much did he slip you to keep quiet?”

"I didn’t take any money! And the flowers aren't from your stalker from the bar the other night, sorry to disappoint you," he said. "It’s from your not-so-secret admirer."

Well, that a relief. Not from the stalker. I had three yellow roses in a vase and an overactive imagination. I should have known they were from Sherlock.

"Why the big secret then?"

"He just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea. I was telling Sherlock about what happened before the accident--about the delivery. He said to send something for him. He told me to pick it out. So I picked out the same flowers. I thought it’d be funny. Sherlock didn’t. That’s why he said not to tell you." 

"Well, he’s right. It’s not funny.” I held my head; it  started to pound. I need more Vicodin. 

"Well, I'm sorry," Anderson said. "Gimme a break. Not like I haven’t gotten bitched out already. He practically ripped me to shreds at the hospital when I told him I’d sent yellow roses. " 

"I don't remember Sherlock visiting me," I said. "But I don't remember much right after the accident. You know, nothing is chance for him.” I hesitated then said thinking aloud, “He’d never trust you with a secret. He wanted me to know he sent them.”

“Yeah, he’s probably hoping someday you'll figure it out. Everyone in the world has, but you."

"Figure what out?" I asked.

"John," Anderson whispered, " _ you two are a couple _ ." Then he made kissy noises.

That was it. I hollered into the receiver: "He is my _ best friend _ . I don't _ like  _ guys. I am  _ not  _ gay." Then punctuated it with: " _ Fuck you. _ "

"You’re right! You’re not gay. You are  _ bisexual _ . You like women too. In fact, you love women. But you also love men. And you know you love me," Anderson taunted. "I'm irresistible. Sorry, but you can't have me. Because I am straight--as much as you might want me. I gotta go. Need to finish watering the back houses," Anderson paused.  _ "Hope you feel better soon."  _

"You readin' that off a card it the shop?" I growled.

_ "Have a nice day!" _

Since my regular physician gave me the thumbs up to go back to work as soon as I felt comfortable and took it easy, I decided to see who my sub playing for me in the band was tonight. Not that I'm worried or anything. I know I wasn’t irreplaceable, but I liked to think that my contribution to the band kept it going. It's just being on stage was exciting, and I didn’t want to lose that. The band, Failing Upward, was a big part of my life.

We were playing tonight, or the band was, so I decided to go hang out. Maybe watch a few sets. Maybe I'd feel up to playing--take my  Gibson along just in case. Hmmm, well, I still have that guitar. But I knew I couldn't jump around on stage. Heck, when I bent over for my guitar case, I almost vomited from the pain. Second thought, guess I wouldn't take my guitar. That's out. Still I could at least get out of the house.

Watching  _ The Price is Right _ and surfing the internet got old fast. There are only so many porn films you can watch before it gets old. I needed excitement, and I wasn’t ready to go chasing Sherlock around investigating. I thought, why not pick up my cell and call Sherlock to see if he’d like to go instead. He was back. We’d avoided each other long enough, but I changed my mind. Sherlock hated bars. I didn’t want to listen to him piss and moan about how bored he was. His only high point was when he’d “deduce” people, which got him more than on black eye. He only said he went because I was playing in the band (he preferred classical music)--that’s why I was surprised that he’d gone out with Anderson of all people that night they’d met my stalker. He had to have another reason for going with Anderson that night. Like it was part of a news story he was investigating  or something. 

That’s when I decided, why not call Mary and ask her if she'd like a night out with yours truly? Normally I would never go anywhere with Mary unless I was driving. Mary had the nasty habit of ditching me. We used to date. Now we’re just friends. I don’t take it personally that she ditches me anymore. She does it to everyone. Whoever she chooses as the “lucky recipient” (or unlucky, depending how the poor sot views it all later) of the “prize” (her lady parts). The “chosen one” got to take Mary home. 

Yeah, my very good friend and ex-girlfriend was a slut. Finicky, she wasn't. Mary slept with any halfway decent looking guy that was interested in showing her a good time. If he has a big cock, then she’d overlook a lot of flaws. A big cock and a handsome face is a slam dunk. Also, some women captured her interest too when the mood struck her. She'd slept with all members of the band and most my friends. About everyone _ and  _ me. But never again--even if she does suggest we “do it again for old times” when she’s really drunk. Fucking your friends is the best way to lose them. She even tried sleeping with Sherlock once.There was this one drunk, sloppy night, they almost did it. But she said she didn't sleep with a man prettier than her. 

She also said Sherlock should save himself for the right person. That kinda ruined the mood I’m sure. Sherlock said he was glad it never happened. That he didn't need those kind of complications. Or diseases. Besides, he does care about her in his way. Not in  _ that  _ way--but as a friend. Sex can strangle a friendship. Besides, he thought of her more like a sister. Incest? That was just wrong.

The shame of it was Mary was brainy and beautiful. She spoke four languages and has a Master's in Economics and also LPN on top of it all. When she walked into the room all the men knew she was the most beautiful because she knew she was. It was attitude. So many of my friends said they didn’t understand why woman who had that much going for her would have so little respect for herself. But they didn’t get it. She was a free spirit. She wasn’t a user like Anderson. She was upfront that she just wanted to get off. I wasn’t into double standards. I knew the Freudian arguments why Mary slept around--she wanted her daddy's love or some such shit. I didn’t think that was right. She just like to fuck. She said she's always careful--she is a nurse. I wasn’t going to judge her. Ever.

She was my sister's best friend, before she was mine or before we even dated. My sister always loved Mary for what she was inside. They were attached at the hip. Best friends since the first day of school. I know Harry loved her in other ways too. Not the way she looked, or how she acted. I ended up loving Mary because she was there for me when I needed her most, and I was there for her, too after my sister died.

But I wished she'd get off her theory that I liked men though. Sometimes it'd be easier to just make her and the entire world happy and if I said, “Yes, you're all right; I'm wrong. I'm a queer.”

But I wasn't. I could admire a beautiful woman; I admired Mary. And I didn't look at men on the street and think, “Hey, nice ass” like she did.

I picked up my phone and called Mary to go out. If Mary got friendly with anyone, I could get a ride home easy enough from one the guys in the band. 


	3. Que Sera, Sera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter with angst and a bit of action. And I do love the bar bathroom banter portion of the chapter.

The Road House. A dive built out in the middle of nowhere. Cornfields and forests and a small lake surrounded it.

Still for being remote, the bar attracted students from two nearby colleges and a university, and during the summer months, the bar still managed to pull in a lot of locals along with the die-hard year-round college crowd. Built on scenic Pine Lake, you'd think the owners would keep up the property better. Still, taxes would increase if the place looked too nice. Maybe it was a way around the system. 

The outside of the building was constructed from old field stone and peeling stained pine planks resembling a huge hodgepodge cabin. The sign in front needed repair and paint as well. The inside was no better--pine wainscot walls lacquered with the quaint veneer of decade’s old cigarette smoke. The ceiling’s rafters, constructed of the same dark pine, were low. So low that Bill Wiggins, our skinny, six foot plus lead guitarist had to crouch and duck them when he was on stage or he'd hit his head. His solution? Jump out on the floor and play. 

The locals and college kids loved Ol’ Bill. When he jumped out on the dance floor, they liked to play air guitar next to him. Bill's odd ball sense of humor got in the way on occasion--like when he said something off-color to one of the campus hotties. Sometimes they get offended. Most times they’d just met up with him after the show. It never failed to amaze me--if you were a guy in a band, you could look like Quasimodo and still get laid on a regular basis if you wanted. Not that Bill was Quasimodo, just that he’s not that good looking, and he’s kind of an ex addict; he was balding with deep eyes that said “I’m a creeper.” Women wouldn't give him a second look on the street--or if they did, they’d run in fear. Frankly, he looks like a homeless guy. On stage--or at the Road House off stage--he suddenly became as attractive to them as Benedict Cumberbatch. 

Mary and I got there after the band began warming up for their first set. Bill was at it already: some cute blonde was sticking her 34C's in his face with him on his knees cranking out the jams and inhaling her cleavage like it was ambrosia. I walked by Bill and waved. I went and leaned against an amp, scoping out a good place for us to sit. Since there was no "backstage" at the Road House, we were limited to the audience. There was a spot in the front with a group of college boy regulars who were more than happy to ogle Mary for the evening. 

"Hey, John," yelled, oh... what's his name? After a while they all looked the same--college boys with the perfect white teeth and scrubbed faces. The guy was kind of a dick. "Heard you were in some car accident. How are you?" His eyes along with the rest of the table, never left Mary, who wore a slinky, red dress, gold belt and pumps. Was it her fault she was a penis magnet?

"Yeah, I was. I'm better," I yelled back. The guy completely ignored me and pulled a chair out for Mary to sit down in instead. I pulled a chair up from the next table and sat down, wincing. I had nixed the painkillers earlier in the day so I could have a few beers. Maybe I should have nixed the beer instead.

"You look like shit with those black eyes," the college boy said and shook his head toward the stage. "Your band sounds great tonight. Of course not as..." I strained to hear the rest and didn’t catch it. Sitting next to amps wasn't conducive to good conversation.

As normal, the dance floor was empty during the first set. Only large quantities of beer and hard liquor give most guys the nerve to ask women to dance. The crowd hadn't reached saturation.

I decided to check out the reason why I'd come. My eyes pulled to the stage. I studied the guy who was subbing for me. Not bad. I couldn't decide yet if I'd anything to worry about, when I felt a  tap on my shoulder. 

Shit.

"Want to dance?" Anderson stuck his face near mine.

"Fuck you," I answered. "You're not funny." 

"Oh, I'm sorry," Mary said. "But he was asking me. You don't have to bite his head off though if you didn't want to dance."

I  grabbed her sleeve and pulled her head next to mine and yelled in her ear, "He brought Irene. What’s he asking you for?” Irene Adler waved at me and winked. 

She shrugged. “Do _you_ want to dance?” she asked me.

“Sorry. I would but my ribs are still really sore."

She shook her head at Anderson. "Thanks, not not. Maybe next set."

"Do you want to come sit with us?" Anderson asked. Or panted. And by the way Irene was checking out Mary, she was thinking about a threesome. Wouldn’t be the first or last time. I didn’t mind at all except Irene was with Anderson. Irene could do better than that. Especially since his main target, as usual, was Mary. Every time he was around Mary, I swear, Anderson followed her like she was a bitch in heat. Irene just liked Mary period. She’d already managed to get her in bed on numerous occasions that both of them liked to tell me about. In detail. Anderson? No. I never wanted to hear anything regarding him vague or in detail. 

I hesitated. I didn’t want to sit with Irene or Anderson and wasn't up to hearing Anderson's mouth, but I didn't want to be rude. I thought... _ put on the top of my list… stop worrying about being rude to others, especially assholes.  _

I looked over at Mary, and she nodded, then flashed her extra white teeth around the table at all the college boys and said, "Thanks for letting us sit here, guys." 

I had to smile at their disappointed faces. I guess there was some benefit to leaving this table. As we stood up, I whispered in the ear of the guy sitting next to me, "Guess you won't be gettin' lucky with her tonight." 

For a moment there, I thought he was going to punch me. 

 

We made our way over to where Anderson was sitting, and it fucking hurt to walk. I was surprised to see Sherlock at the table and wasn't sure what that was all about.  I sat next to him as he flagged down the waitress for a new round of drinks. 

"What'll you have? I'll buy this one," Sherlock said.

"I'll have beer on tap," I said. 

"I’ll have a rum and Coke," Mary chimed in. She's always on board for a free drink.

"I’ll have Coke," Sherlock said to the waitress. Sherlock sober as usual on a night out. At least as far as alcohol was concerned. It was another kind of coke that he’d had past problems with--but not to party. To work. He hadn’t done it in over a year. Partly because of how much I hated it, and partly because how much it hurt his parents to see him like that. I liked to think the last part was because he needed to do it for himself.

I drank my beer down and watched the stage intently for quite a while, studying my replacement when Anderson bent over and asked, "Worried? He's really good, John. Great voice, too." Anderson smiled.  _ The fuck. I hated him. _

I felt my face flush, and I imagined punching Anderson in the face and seeing that lopsided smile smeared with blood. And I wasn't sure what made me more pissed--Anderson's stupid comment, or Mary falling all over him. 

I got another beer.

This wasn't a good sign; Mary was being sucked into the Black Hole that is Anderson. Time to play psychologist with Mary. I downed my beer, then nodded my head toward the bathroom, trying to get Mary's attention. No luck, she was too entranced by Anderson and Irene. I decided I needed to use a more straightforward tactic.

I grabbed her arm and pulled her up. "Need to use the restroom! Come on Mary. Now!" 

"You girls hurry back," Anderson taunted. I ignored that one since Sherlock gave him an evil look for me. 

I led Mary through the crowd toward the back door. Anything to get Mary away from that bastard.

Mary pushed me back asking, "What's with you?" 

"I have this really creepy feeling you're going end up screwing Anderson tonight," I said. “Let’s step outside and talk.”

"I really do have to pee though," Mary said. She grabbed and pulled me toward the women's room.

"I can't come in here," I said, and I grabbed the door frame. One hard yank, and she pulled me in. I started back out, but curiosity got the better of me. I always wondered what the inside of the ladies' restroom looked like.

"This sure is a lot cleaner than our bathroom. The sinks' sparkle, and you even have a cute little arrangement that's not really an arrangement." I pointed to a basket next to the sink.

"That's potpourri," she said. "To make this place smell nice."

"Like I don't know what potpourri is? I was just trying to make bathroom small talk."

"Who's out there?" a voice squeaked from behind the third stall. 

"Nobody," said Mary. "Not to worry. Just me and a gay guy."

" _ Okay _ ," the voice answered uncertainly. Mary walked into the next stall and shut the door. I stood, wondering what the Hell I was doing in the women's room. I needed to sit down, but the counter was so pristine; it didn't feel right, putting my ass there.

I looked away from the stall into the mirror above the sinks. Man, I did look like shit. The green fading bruises clashed horribly with my blue eyes. I looked kinda pasty too. 

Must be bad lighting.

"Man," Mary said. "I had to go bad."

"Mary," I began. "You always told me, 'Please stop me if I try to fuck Anderson.' Well, here's your red flag, Mary. I  _ know _ the script. I've _ seen _ you do this countless times with countless men." Mary responded by flushing the toilet. She stepped out, adjusting the belt on her red dress as she stepped next to me to wash her hands.

I read denial all over Mary's flawless features as I stared at her in the mirror. Her mouth was set. How could she not even know herself well enough to see the signs? Maybe she just didn't give a shit.

"You're crazy," Mary said. She inspected her profile in the smoke stained mirror and wiped the lipstick from the corner of her mouth with her index finger. 

"He's not even remotely attractive," I said.

"But he does have a nice body. I hear is dick is really big." 

"Yeah, and he's also the biggest asshole I know." I knew that would hit a nerve with her. "You keep telling me you attract assholes--Well, I think you  _ attract _ dicks, but you  _ pick _ assholes. You know--the  _ biggest _ asshole wins. Well, Anderson is the Elvis of all assholes."

Stall number three began laughing---Mary slammed her foot into its door. 

"Hey, this is serious," I yelled at Mary, and then pointed to the stall. "See,  _ she _ probably knows Phillip Anderson, too." 

“Yeah,” said the voice behind the stall door, “I slept with him. He’s an asshole.”

"See!” I said. 

“I'm not going to jump Phil,” Mary said, adjusting the strap on her dress. “And since when did _you_ care _who_ I sleep with?" 

"I don't care as long as it's not Anderson. Leave with Irene. She’s safer." 

"What if I left with Sherlock?" 

We stood, locked on each other's reflection in the mirror. 

"Now that's the mother of all blank stares," Mary said, as she burst out laughing. "Don't worry. Sherlock's preferences don’t lean to the fairer sex. And he's way too pretty for me. Although he is incredibly cute--love those cheekbones. Big dick I hear too. Not for me though. But Irene. Now she’d take him in a second. Second thought, I might. Maybe. On the right night, you know, correct timing and all that. I like tall men." 

"Oh, I thought it was  _ all  _ men. Or maybe men like Anderson--yeah, tall, stupid and jerky." 

"What ever happens between Anderson, Irene and me, happens." 

"Enough of your 'Que sera, sera' shit." 

"How long has it been since you got laid anyway, John? When  _ I  _ took pity on you? " now that hurt. "You sure are a bitch--You could use a good piece of ass." More laughing from the stall. I banged on the stall door this time. 

"What the Hell are you doing in there?" Mary yelled into the girl in stall three.

"Nothing anymore. But I don’t want to miss any of this. It’s almost as good as your show on the stage," she answered.

"Hmm," Mary commented. "Would you like to fuck John?" What?! Now she was offering me out to faceless women in bathrooms!

“Yeah, but isn’t he gay?” said the voice.

“I’m not gay!”

"No," said the faceless voice. "You're bisexual. I’d take you though--especially if it was with that friend of yours." 

"No! That's _ not happening.   _ And I’m NOT asking," I said. Was this a world-wide conspiracy against me? 

"I think he likes you," Mary said.

"Anderson? Right. Sure," I said.

"Honestly, John. I mean Sherlock. Irene said he’s in love with you. She should know. You are so naïve when it comes to love and sex. You have over half of the bar panting after you most nights when you play and sing, and you think they are just clapping 'cause they think you're talented."

What the hell did that mean? … I have no talent? 

"Most of the bar would drop their pants for you," she continued. "And haven't you ever noticed how Sherlock looks at you? Take my advice," she said conspiratorially. "Take Sherlock home and fuck him good. I think he might even need it worse than you." 

"I thought we were talking about Anderson? Don't change the subject. Hey, where are you going?" I watched her walk away from me.

"Going?  _ Going _ ? I guess I'm  _ going _ to make Anderson  _ beg  _ for it for about, say, a half an hour more. Then I'm  _ going _ take him home and  _ fuck _ his brains out. Without Irene." 

Wonderful. Good friend and worst nightmare--together. The voice behind the door came out of hiding. A really hot red head. She gave me a wink and offered me her number. I didn’t take it. The band stopped playing as I walked back to the table. Mary gave me an "up-yours" look, so I decided I'd be the one to ditch  _ her _ first tonight and ordered another beer.

"I'm going to go talk to the guys," I pointed toward the stage, taking my beer with me. 

"I’m coming," Sherlock said. 

Shit. I thought, Mary was right, but I mean, I know he liked me, but in love? No. Irene was wrong. 

We both walked up to Bill. He and Smith, who played bass, were sitting on the edge of the stage drinking complementary Miller from the tap.

"You look one-eighty better than the last time I saw you," said Smith.

"Yeah, I feel only ninety degrees better, though," I answered, taking a swig and pointing with my little finger. "Who's the sub?" 

"Some guy came up to us the night of your accident. Said he could play. It was like our psychic friend saw you weren't gonna be here. He even had a guitar out in his car. Talk about a stroke of luck."

"Yeah, _ real _ lucky," Sherlock said, dripping with sarcasm. Who was this character anyway? Short like me--maybe a bit taller. Not unattractive, but not great looking either. Brown, expressive eyes though. To look at him, he had a sense of humor. 

"He's pretty good, too. Says his brother is some big time manager dude. Name is Sean Hopkins." This is getting better and better. Maybe his uncle owns Aftermath, too. "He knows all the covers we do and even the originals."

"He knows the songs I've written?" I asked, finishing off the bottle.

"Yeah, weird isn't it?" Smith said. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he looked at my replacement.

"Where'd he come from? I can't remember seeing him in the audience--you know, a regular or something? He has to be if he knows our songs," I said. Suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my temple. "Um...I don't mean to sound cliché, but the room has started spinning, and I've only had a few beers."

"John? Are you ok?" Sherlock grabbed my arm to steady me. I shrugged him off and walked back to our table. He followed me, but he also watched over his shoulder at the sub.

"You turned kind of gray there for a moment," Sherlock said. "Looked like you we about to pass out." 

"I'm feeling better now now that I’ve sat down. Must be not over the accident. I feel like I got kicked in the head. Not that if they threw me aside for this new guy, the end of the world would come, but fuck. Bad things happen in threes--isn't that what they say? Like Karma? I don't think I did anything in this life..."

I stopped. No use going on and on. Sherlock didn't need to hear my problems. And I was really thirsty. I ordered one on tap this time.

"You know I don’t believe in Karma," Sherlock said slowly. "I make my own destiny. As for reincarnation, if I lived before, I'd like to think I was someone who had vision--you know--like Dylan Thomas." 

I laughed. I sat and just looked at him. He was impossible to figure out. Mary was right; he had really nice eyes. God, maybe I shouldn't have had that last drink, I thought, looking down at my empty glass. Then I ordered one more. 

'"Dylan Thomas,” I said, leaning into him. “I never would have thought you’d compare yourself to a writer like that. More along the lines of someone with an analytical, brilliant mind." 

Beautiful eyes, I thought. Must. Look. Away. God, I hated rock-heavy uncomfortable silences. So I drank. 

Always happened when the room got quiet. I looked down at my half-filled glass, and I heard the rusty nails scraping together in Sherlock's chair, creaking as he fidgeted. He cleared his throat and sat forward.

"How much do you remember?" he asked, his deep baritone rumbled in my ear.

At first I thought he was questioning how much I’d had to drink tonight, but it was the concern in his eyes that made me realize. "About the night of my accident? Not much," I said. "I guess you came up to see me." 

"I was worried when I saw that guy coming out of your room at the hospital," he said in a low voice so the others wouldn't hear.  


"What guy?" I sat closer to Sherlock. 

"You know the guy at the bar that asked all the questions about you." 

Silence. News to me.

"What? He was at the hospital visiting me? I don't recall that at all."

"I asked you about him. You told me everything was cool. So, you don't remember me visiting you at all?"

"I said, I don't remember a thing," my voice sounded hoarse and maybe a bit slurred and stilted. It just came out that way. "I'm sorry. I don't remember anything right after the accident. The doctor said it was either shock or the head trauma. I don't remember. I don't remember anything," I paused. "You know more than me." 

"To tell you the truth," he said, "you were really out of it. You talked about a llama…you hit one. The nurse at the hospital told me it was a deer or something. You told me about some roses and that you had an infected finger. I asked you about the guy who came out of your room before me, and you said something about ‘Alfred Hitchcock's sister's brother’ and ‘a card.’" 

“So tell me what you deduced from all of that. I can see you’re dying to.”

"He's not going to do one of those creepy deductions!" Anderson said.

"Shut up and let him do it," I said.

"It was a llama. There’s a farmer who raises them near where the accident occurred. You saw the movie _ North by Northwest  _ the day before the accident. Some person you met on the delivery reminded you of that film. Your finger is infected. It still is. You are favoring that arm heavily also, leaving me to believe that it has progressed. You should seek medical attention. And the card, that was off an arrangement you were delivering, which was most likely fell off the flowers you were delivering. This caused you to become distracted."

“God, Sherlock, you are  _ fucking brilliant, _ " I said, reaching over and giving his arm a quick squeeze. I let my hand linger there a bit longer than normal. He smiled. I loved to make him smile.

Mary choked back a laugh. I didn't care.

The band was beginning the next set. The guy who was playing in my place was starting to piss me off. The audience liked him. He was bowing and blowing kisses. Shit. What a show off. 

“I think I’ll have one more,” I said.

"How about we go out for some fresh air?" he asked. "I need a cigarette." I nodded, and we walked to the door. He knows I hate it that he smokes. 

Mary winked at me on the way by. 

_ Bitch _ . 

We walked outside around the back and leaned against the side of the building. He shifted closer, so we were just touching. He sniffed my hair. I had to laugh. It was so like him to taste and sniff things. He just never sniffed me before. I wondered why I really came out here with Sherlock. I was kind of drunk. Sherlock jangled the change in his pocket, and I picked at the hangnail on my thumb and licked my lips. Then he got out a cigarette and lit it. That mouth should be banned. Maybe Mary was right. Maybe I did need to get laid. I was so horny. Sherlock was definitely looking good to me right now. 

"What am I missing?" I asked. Sherlock gave me a long, hard look as smoke curled from his lips. 

"John," he said, "I don't know if I can say this a second time."

"What?" I asked, not sure if I wanted an answer. 

"I told you at the hospital." 

I didn't think I wanted to hear this. 

Sherlock rolled a piece of gravel under his left boot back and forth, then took another drag off his cigarette.

"You looked silly in that hospital gown," he laughed. “Cute too.”

I even had to laugh at that. I guess Sherlock was trying to pick me up. Funny. I didn't feel nervous. 

But he was. And Sherlock was rarely ever nervous. Maybe it was the way his thumb on one hand repeatedly rubbed his faded denims on the leg pressed next to mine, or maybe how he compulsively flicked his cigarette with his other hand that gave away he was on edge. 

I had to ask because I didn’t feel nervous, I felt interested. "What did you say?"   


The music quit playing inside. I heard Sherlock breathing, could practically feel it against my neck.

"You really  _ don't  _ remember anything that I said to you in the hospital, do you?"

"No, I don't." 

"I thought you were pretending not to remember."

I noticed his hands shaking before I realized mine were too. I knew I should have said,  _ tell me _ . But the truth was part of me didn't want to know. I didn't want to because I was suddenly afraid of all I could lose if he did. The beers were definitely affecting me. Without the stone wall for support, I would have collapsed.

"I'm feeling kind of sick," I said.

"You’ve had too much considering. I think I should take you home." I heard the disappointment in his voice, but I didn’t say anything and just followed him to his car. We should go in to say goodbye, but I need to leave.   


As he leaned in close to unlock the door on my side of his orange vintage Cutlass, I felt his breath prickle the fine hairs on my neck. His forearm pressed against me as he reached around to unlock the car was not accidental. I felt light headed. Not from the beer either. Mixing friendship and sex was like mixing drinks--never a good idea. Besides, I thought, I'm not... but he smelled like cigarettes and cinnamon gum.This was a bad idea.

My mind was saying no, while my body was saying yes, please, and Sherlock leaned in closer, pressing his chest into my back. It was...intoxicating. Testing for my reaction, he pressed in a bit closer. My belly fluttered. Not an unpleasant feeling either. I felt Sherlock's firm answer to my gentle push before I came to my senses.  _ What was I doing? _ I jumped away--my cheeks hot. But I couldn’t deny it had felt so good. And was a bit not good. 

I noticed _him_ then, standing near to the back entrance of the Road House, recognizing him at once--the yellow light that filtered down from the rafters sharpened his unforgettable profile. It was the man who ordered the flowers that day. 

Sherlock had noticed him already. 

"I see him,” Sherlock said. “That’s who asked about you, and who visited you at the hospital. His name is Gregory Lestrade. And he's been watching us. It’s time to find out what he wants." Sherlock started across the parking lot. I followed behind.

The man glanced at us impassively, turned and walked in the other direction. Sherlock started to sprint after him. I stumbled forward and with both hands, I snatched the back of Sherlock's t-shirt and yanked him back.    


"Let him go," I said to Sherlock. "I'm not in any shape for one of your back alley confrontations tonight."    


"You stay here. I can go talk to him,” he said. "I don't think he'll give us any trouble."  


“No, not tonight. No,” I repeated.

He sighed and blinked slowly, reassessing. I saw that amazing mind working. “Sorry, I wasn't thinking,” he said. “I’ll take you home."

I couldn't look Sherlock in the eye. We turned and walked back to his car. I glanced across the top of his Cutlass, then I ducked through the passenger door. 

All the way home, my brain rewound and replayed the events of the last few weeks and tonight, the main focus. My temp replacement in the band. That strange guy, Lestrade. Sherlock knows more about him than he's telling me. And what the fuck was that going on in my head with Sherlock? 

My brain fast forwarded to Sherlock leaning against me by the back entrance. I knew I was in trouble when he sniffed my hair. I slowed down and replayed the end of this evening. I got scared when I realized I enjoyed how good he felt, his long legs against mine. I thought of alternative endings up against the car. 

Through my imaginations, the car slowed and I heard Sherlock say my name. Sherlock's words. I came to my senses and I clearly heard him say again "Isn't that your place?" 

I blinked back to the world. The night sky alight, my eyes beheld what Sherlock was referring to--my house--engulfed in flames. 

Fire trucks and firemen swarmed around like angry bees. Sherlock slammed on the brakes and parked his Cutlass tight to the curb. I just sat there for a moment-- stunned, my sweaty body stuck to the white leather bucket seat. Sherlock opened my door. He led me like one of the Night of the Living Dead up my driveway. Why was my life falling apart? 

"Three," I said.

"What, John?" he asked, worry in his deep voice.

Flames spewed out of every window, consuming the house. The puny water hoses did little to douse the inferno. I stood numb. Sherlock stood shoulder to shoulder next to me. 

"I think this is three," I said. "Bad luck comes in threes."

Tears pricked my eyes, but I pushed them back. I began rationalizing. What was a place to live compared to other parts of my life I'd lost? This was nothing. My guitar was in there, but that was replaceable. My laptop. But it was all the old photos and heirlooms. My parents and sister. My grandparents. All I had left of them, was in there, burning down with my home. 

It was like losing them all over again.

And it was a fire. Again.

We walked together up to the scene. At least I think we did. Sherlock supported me most of the way as I stumbled. The fire marshal asked plenty of questions. Like who was the owner, what was inside. Did I have a problem with my landlord? Did I have insurance? Where was I before the fire? What time had I left the house?

Sherlock said he needed to walk around a bit to find out more, and that he’d be right back. Good to his word, he was back in minutes. Just in time to hear the rest of the questions. Of course he found out plenty: the fire started in the living room with some type of accelerant that was also spread through the house. However, according to Sherlock, they were incorrect in thinking I did it. Well, duh. But of course Sherlock told them I had over a hundred of witnesses as to where I was tonight. 

They gave him a doubtful stare 

Someone burned down my house, and they think it was me.

_ Now playing… John Watson in... Arson Suspect # 1...  _

Although they kept telling me they always ask such questions in situations like this, I knew that I and the property owner were the only suspects for the moment. Being suspected of crimes was an everyday occurrence for Sherlock, but sorry, it wasn’t for me. I was upset and angry and in shock. And it was a fire.

A fire.

Now... after successive weeks of bad luck, I topped it off with the perfect evening  _ and _ a skeleton of a house. 

I heard Sherlock telling the fire marshal about my family's history, the recent accident and stay in the hospital, more specifics as to where we were all night with plenty of witnesses. I gave them where I worked and my cell number to get in touch with me. 

Finally, Sherlock could stand no more

“He's just recovering from head trauma; therefore, no more questions," Sherlock said. "Not tonight. And if you bothered to take a look at the back door, any idiot could see that the door was broken into. I believe when you go inside, you’ll see evidence of robbery if any evidence remains after such an intense fire." 

The fireman looked at me like I was some half-drowned kitten. I don’t know what’s worse, pity or suspicion. The fire marshal knew me--or at least knew my history. He asked me if I had “any other” relatives in town. I said, no. That was when Sherlock went into full-asshole mode. Told him the fire marshal that he had the same uncaring nature as his father who was in jail for swindling elderly couples. 

Sherlock put me in his car and drove me away. I let him. It wasn’t hard to do. Kinda to save me from myself. I rode just staring straight ahead not saying a word for a while. Then I turned and studied Sherlock's face. 

Funny how you can look at someone thousands of times and never really see them. 

"I’d ask you where you want to go, but I have a feeling what you’d say," he said.

“Mary’s. Yeah, you’re right. I would say Mary's, but we both know she has a guest tonight that I don't feel like dealing with." 

"Anderson," Sherlock replied.

I nodded. I didn’t want the aggravation. That and the unsaid: If Anderson wasn’t there, I was feeling low enough that I might actually do something with Mary I would regret.

"There was a time not long ago that you wouldn’t have thought twice about where you’d go. You are still my best friend. You’re my only friend, really. I know where you should go. Home with me.” 

He was frowning--after years of hanging out with Sherlock, I knew that look. He was worried. 

“I promise I wouldn't try to get in your pants," he said. 

I choked back a laugh. Honestly, I knew for the first time he wasn’t kidding though. He said those same words to me for years as a joke. Although I don’t even recall him dating, he’d never had to really come out because he knew he preferred men. He’d always knew that he was gay. It never affected our friendship. No, what defined him was what he did. Solve crimes. Investigate murders. Report on them. I’d known him since grade school, and he even solved crimes then. In high school he worked for the school paper and freelanced at the local paper. He helped clear our athletic director’s name of embezzlement as a freshman in high school. Angelo Rossi retired from school two years later and opened restaurant downtown. Angelo still says he owes his life to Sherlock. Without his retirement, he wouldn’t have his good name or Angelo’s. The man worships Sherlock--told him eat could eat there free for as long as he owned the restaurant. 

The joke about not getting in my pants began in high school. 

We were good friends then, but I didn’t think of him as my best friend until college. We had classes together before he dropped out because it was “boring.” We bonded over him dragging me out on some of his very first crime cases. He said he needed my “medical expertise.” I think what he really needed was a friend. A best friend. 

I'd known inside for a while that he would like me to be more than a friend. That his joke wasn’t all joking. 

I didn’t want to lose a good friend. I didn't want our friendship to be something I looked back on in the future. I wanted it always. I almost blew it tonight although I felt a pang of disappointment. He promised me. But Sherlock sucked at keeping promises. 

\----------------------

Sherlock lived down street from the flower shop and rented from Mrs. Hudson, who lived in the same large Victorian home. A mutual friend of ours, Mike Stamford, was responsible for introducing both of us to her. I’d been some weeks since I’d been to his upstairs apartment, and he never was a great housekeeper, which Mrs. Hudson kept reminding him that she wouldn’t do it for him (then she’d promptly come up and with a soup and sandwich for his lunch). 

We climbed the stairs to his apartment, and Sherlock unlocked the door of 221B. 

"You really haven’t concerned yourself recently with details like, say, sanitation," I commented, looking at the trash all over the kitchen floor. His living room was trashed too. I was used to a lot of experiments and clutter, but this wasn’t normal.

I turned around to look at him, "Sherlock?" By the expression on his face as he fell over his coffee table, I could tell he was as surprised to see the room in this condition as I was. He picked himself off the floor rubbing his shins, cussing. 

We both heard a crash in Sherlock’s bedroom. "Toby!" he called out. An excited bark came from behind the door. The door was shut? Sherlock never shut Toby up in his room! Sherlock let him out, and Toby jumped up on him and slathered him in thankful doggy kisses.

I flopped myself down on the well-worn couch and looked at the tossed room. Sherlock and Toby took a seat on both sides of me, Toby’s head in my lap on one, and Sherlock’s arm rubbing mine on the other.

"John, I think you better tell me more about that delivery you made before the accident."

I scratched behind Toby’s ears and began.


	4. Hidden Hills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncovering and recovering. What's the best way to recover a recent memory? Sherlock convinces John go under hypnosis. The kicker? It's at Hidden Hills. A nudist colony. What will it uncover?

No liquor, no drug intoxicates the senses as does Sherlock’s piercing focus on a client relating a narrative. To be that focus was to be a newly discovered treasure unearthed. As I explained all the events leading up to my accident in detail, Sherlock directed that same focus on me. It was unsettling, it was humbling. After I finished, Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and went into what he called his Mind Palace. For a man whose estimation rests on the scientific and analytic mind, I found this almost mystical part of him intriguing. He also looked incredible posed like that deep inside himself. He was a puzzle to me. An amazing man.

I leaned over. I thought of kissing him. I did. 

But even in his Palace he knew why I leaned in and turned his head. He opened his eyes and looked into me. I knew I was about to be on the end of one of his deductions. I wasn’t prepared, however, for how personal this would be.

"For years we've avoided this moment," Sherlock said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Now, it's here, and I don't want it. Do you know why? Not just because I promised I wouldn't get into your pants, or because you drank too one too many beers, or because you've just been through a traumatic week."

I leaned back into the couch, closing my eyes, chin down. "Alright, Mr. Investigative Reporter, tell me why else," I said. "Oh, wait, let me guess the real reason. It's because I'm needy. Or maybe I'm sexually confused."

"No," he said, his body falling back into the couch next to mine. The resignation in his voice and body perplexed me. "You're doing what you've always done. Avoiding. And what ever you're avoiding, it's big. You'd rather fuck me than have to admit it to yourself."

God, I felt afraid, then angry. He knew. Of course he knew. 

"Oh hell." I began to bang my head into the back of his couch. A tap at first. Each time after, harder than the last.  _ Feel something. Feel something. _ I needed to feel. Finally, the wooden frame gave a satisfying crunch against the back of my skull.

"Enough," he said, pressing his hand firmly against my forehead and stopping me from damaging his furniture, or myself, further. 

"You're avoiding again," he said. "Now, you're beating the hell out of yourself doing it. And  _ you  _ call  _ me  _ self-destructive. Next step. You’ll get angry and vent. Most likely at me."

I opened my eyes, looking over at Sherlock. His long fingers slid down off my forehead to my jaw, loitering around before slipping away. I licked my top lip, then bit it, pushing back the anger that bubbled up to spite him.

"Tell me about before. The other fire," he said, his fingers left their ghostly impressions, a haunting reminder. “Tell what you’ve spent so many years trying to avoid telling me and telling yourself.”

I faced my parents' death. 

I faced my sister's death. 

So what if I skipped out on grief counseling? Counselors were a waste of time and money. They just nodded and did nothing to change how you felt. So what if I ignored Father Thomas knocking at the door? All he ever did was spew back scriptures and platitudes. So what if I stayed home and refused to answer my text messages and cellphone? No one understands what it’s like.

Like Sherlock did any better addressing his emotional problems? Coke, coke and maybe a bit of heroin on the side? Yeah, he did a lot better.

At least I kept this all to myself instead of screaming it out at the top of my lungs. 

Tonight I made a mistake. I reached for Sherlock. Maybe not for the best of reasons.   


I knew that. He was right. Like fucking always.

Avoiding. I'd practiced avoiding so well my whole life. At least Sherlock didn’t avoid. He hid instead. 

I hated the voices inside my head. My father saying I'm weak. Father Thomas telling me to say fifty “Hail Marys” and twenty “Our Fathers” and maybe I won't go to Hell. I hated that the last memories of my family weren’t happy ones. 

Tired and hurt, my body and head ached, but the pain wasn't unbearable. I just needed rest. Sleep. And he was wrong if he thought I did it just to avoid. I also did it because I wanted him.  


“I can’t talk about it tonight,” I said, running my fingers through my hair. “I will. I promise.” My promises were always good. I didn’t break them. Sherlock knew that, so Sherlock let it go. And that’s hard for him to do. Being my best friend, that’s what he did, what he always did. Sherlock nodded. I was surprised when he reached out and grasped my hand. He turned it gently over, inspecting my finger. A light touch from him. A wince from me. He shook his head.

Tired. I was so tired. 

“You need a different antibiotic,” he sighed. “This infection isn’t clearing up as it should.” It hurt like hell too, but I’d be damned if I’d admit that.

“We’ll take care of it tomorrow. And you’ll talk.” The intensity of those emerald eyes told me he would never let this go.

So, Sherlock took the sofa, and I took his bed. His extra room was positively uninhabitable. He insisted I get a decent night's sleep, so we could talk in the morning and get the doctor to call in some new antibiotics.

I heard Sherlock's feet moving around outside the bedroom door about five minutes after I went into his room. He doesn’t sleep much, so I wasn’t surprised. I rarely had a problem getting to sleep; it was the nightmares that woke me. Even then, I could fall back without much problem. Tonight was different. I couldn’t shut off what happened, or that he was in the other room. Part of me wanted to ask him in. I still felt the brush of his fingers on my face. But Sherlock wouldn't come in. I wondered if he'd really changed his mind completely about getting into my pants. I didn't think so. But I wouldn't ask again tonight. He might say no, and I knew I couldn't handle rejection again. 

So, I said nothing. His bed smelled like him. His pillow like his hair.  

I couldn't sleep. My mind wouldn't switch off. I thought about my family. My father, who I guess, was right about me all along. My sister, who I loved more than myself. My mom, who could grow love from rocks and topsoil. I thought of me, who missed them all. And thought about how I was going to talk to Sherlock about it all.

I was hard to keep myself from sobbing into his pillow, but I managed to fight it. 

It was always a mistake to look at a clock when you're trying to sleep. It was just after 5 a.m. the last time I checked the clock.

\-----------------

I jerked awake to the sound of banging on the front door. The realization that this was not my bed or my home came to me an instant later. 

In a daze, I smelled coffee wafting into the room and felt the twinges behind my eyes of one of those caffeine withdrawal headaches. I looked at the clock, 3:47 p.m. I never slept this late.

I stumbled out of bed and strained to hear the voices in the other room. I heard a woman. 

A woman in the other room? And I was in  _ the bedroom _ ? In _ my underwear. _   Just my luck, the old cliché with a twist--the  _ other man _ hiding in the bedroom with the angry girlfriend banging on the door demanding,  _ "Let me in!" _

My imagination zipped into overdrive. I envision this woman: She grabs a steak knife from the cutlery drawer and stabs the two-timing bastard boyfriend in the chest.  _ “You deserve a more painful death than this,”  _  the jilted lover wails as she wacks off his-- 

_ Wait.  _

Of course that’s not happening. Sherlock doesn't have a  _ girlfriend _ (obviously). And wasn't that Mary’s voice (why, yes)? Mmm--The Temptations sang in the back of my head,  _ “It was just my imag-in-a-tion, running away with me…”   
_

I got out of bed, pulled on Sherlock's blue bathrobe, a bit long, but God, it felt like magic against my skin. I headed out to see what all the noise was about. Still half asleep, I rounded the corner to the kitchen. 

"Shit! Fuck!" I yelled, after slamming my big toe against the door jam. I hopped around in circles, inching my way into the kitchen. 

Mary looked surprised to see me. 

Hmm, I guess Sherlock hadn't mentioned I was  _ his guest _ .

Her face went from shock to triumph as she looked me up and down. It did look bad. Or good, depending on perspective. Me in Sherlock’s bathrobe, coming from his room, disheveled. 

"John, you scored!" she said, slugging me in the arm. "Oooh, baby, did you show him a good time?"

"Shut up, Mary," I said. "What are you doing here?" 

"Looking for you," she squealed. "I was worried. But this is great. I'm so happy for you. At least for this..."

"Coffee. I need caffeine," I said, noticing trail of blood on the vinyl floor. "And a band-aid.”

"I think you better sit down," she said, but she really hadn’t noticed my toe.

"I already know. I don't have to sit down. Why do you think I spent the night?" I inspected my throbbing toe then her face, and I didn't like the concern on her face or Sherlock's. Not the toe. Also not my house. What? I hesitated.  


"Well, maybe I better then," I said.

"I think you had," Sherlock said.

I limped to the kitchen table and sat down, wincing as I picked off what was left of my toenail. 

"Your house wasn't all that caught on fire last night,” Sherlock said, sitting down with his coffee on the opposite side of the table. ”The Road House burned to the ground too.”

“But that’s not possible,” I said although the moment I said it I knew I’d get a raised eyebrow from Sherlock. He always said that there were no coincidences, just stupid people who didn’t know how to connect the dots. 

I was at both places. _ I was one of the dots.  _

“I’ve already been out look at the building--what’s left of it. The Road House fire started after the manager locked up. Both fires started using an ignitable liquid in multiple places of origin. In both, the arsonists did little to hide their crime. As I suspected with your break in and fire, it was indeed ‘arsonists’ plural. Who ever burned your house, burned the bar.”

He was on a roll. I put my head between my legs. No stopping him.   


“I know we were going to talk about this together when you got up, and you probably would like more coffee, but we must do it now. The fire that killed your parents and sister, I never looked into it, not enough. Now I know I should have, John, even if you didn’t want me to. _ I always suspected _ .”

“It was an accident. It started in the basement,” I said. “The furnace.” My heart pounded in my ears. 

“It burned fast. It spread in an unusual pattern. It became engulfed almost immediately, not unusual, but the intensity was. The second floor collapsed into the basement in less than 15 minutes,” Sherlock said, which lead me to the conclusion that he’d just lied--he had looked into it. Closely.

“Jesus.” I pulled at my hair. Upstairs. That’s where they were all sleeping. There wasn’t time to get out.

“Sherlock, do you have to do this?” Mary asked rubbing my back. I shook my head. He wasn’t right. It _ was _ an accident.

“Yes, Mary, I do.” Sherlock paused for a moment, then continued. “The most damning evidence of all was the smoke detectors. They did not wake your family. There were no batteries in the detectors. John, we both know that to be an impossibility. Your father was obsessed with checking them.”

“I never understood who would have taken them out.”

“John, you must consider…”

“ _ No _ .”

“Yes, John. After what has happened, you must. There was something at all three scenes that ties them together.”

“Me,” I said, choking back a sob. 

“But you weren’t there,” Mary said. “He was with me that night of that fire.”

_ I could have saved them if I was there. I could have saved them. But I wasn’t there.  _

“We argued. Before I left that night,” I said, fighting the tears. “Mom said I treated the house like a hotel, not a home. They said I should stay home for a change. Help them. I should have helped them. She said even said it to me. And I didn't stay.”

“You were not the cause,” Sherlock said. “Every family argues.”

“Sherlock’s right,” Mary said, kissing the top of my head. "If you'd stayed, you would have died too."  


"My bedroom wasn't upstairs. I would woke up. They'd all be alive. It is my fault."

“What you do need to see, is that you are not the cause or at fault. I also am sure the fire was started knowing you would be out of the house. I'm sorry John, but it would have happened another night if not that. You are right that you are the common thread. But I repeat not at fault and not the cause. I would pose there are other threads for each of these fires we don't understand yet. And for the other recent occurrences.”

“Other recent occurrences?” Mary asked.

“Someone broke into this apartment,” Sherlock explained. “My brother always told me that the universe is rarely so lazy. I hate repeating anything he says, but I have to admit he is often correct.”

“I know you say there are no coincidences often enough,” I said. I looked in that face. His eyes bright and caring. He wasn’t telling me this because it was a promising news story or mystery to be solved. He was telling me this because he cared. He sat forward in his chair and leaned toward me from across the table. 

“John, never, ever think you were the cause, but you are, however, part of the solution. We must find the connection. Your family’s death was no accident, and we need to find those responsible.”

I closed my eyes and nodded. He was right. Times like these, I hated him for that. 

“I’ll dig in, investigate, talk to people. I can easily get the old case files,” he said, as he reached his hand across the table and rested it on top of mine. As Sherlock’s thumb rubbed across my knuckles, Mary stared at our hands together. My eyes locked to Sherlock's. I saw determination and compassion. I loved that look on him. 

"This is nice to see, finally,” Mary smiled, changing the subject. "But there wasn’t any need to keep it from me.” Mary smiled at Sherlock.”You didn’t have to tell me that you hadn't seen him since last night…I can keep it secret if you don’t want anyone else to know about you two yet."

Just like that, Sherlock played along. He stood up and pulled me up to my feet. Slipping his arm around my waist, I think he felt the need to lighten the moment, and the whole idea of us having done the light fandango would get her off our back, or at least she’d quit trying to fix us up.

I slipped my arm around his waist in return, and he brushed a quick kiss to my temple--I knew it was more than just pretend for him--and for me. I liked the prickle of his chin and the tingle his lips left behind. It felt like a promise.  


"Aren't you two going to ask about my night?" she asked, grinning up at us and uncrossing her legs.

As usual she felt the need to share. I wish she wouldn't. Just because I didn't have a love life, I didn't know why Mary thought I'd be interested in hers. Did she think I nursed voyeuristic tendencies? Her and Anderson? No! I guessed bad things do happen in  _ more _ than in threes. 

"Spare us the gory details," Sherlock said, knowing I was even less interested in hearing her exploits. He changed the subject fast.

“I got your new antibiotics,” he said, unwinding himself from me. “You should take them--your hand is swollen more than it was last night.” He walked out to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water and the pills. “You need to take two the first day. One after.” He walked into the living room, talking over his shoulder. “While I was at it, I stopped and inspected your car for the card. No card, but look what I found in your trunk." He swung my guitar case from behind the chair. 

But this couldn't be my guitar! Well, that was my guitar case--it had the same scratches from storing it between my dresser and bed along with a few new gouges from the accident. I opened the case, and there it was, the guitar I loved, my candy apple red ES-335 just like B.B. King’s. Thing was, I could have sworn that it was my Fender that was in the back seat, and the Gibson at the house. I reverently picked it up from out of the case. 

Something didn't feel right.

At this point though, I didn't care. They'd have to pry it out of my dead and withered hands. Oh, wait. I looked closer. No scratch on the neck where I caught it on the garden rake in Smith's garage. 

"After all these years, you think I don’t know my own guitar?" I said. I saved for this guitar for two long summers. I knew my guitar. It was embedded into my DNA.

“Just be happy and shut up,” Mary said.

I popped the antibiotics in my mouth and washed them down. And choked. They both looked at me funny when I frantically grabbed at my throat. I had to laugh. They both seemed so odd, staring at me with their eyes bugged out. In fact, they looked ridiculous. It fit. My life was a ridiculous mess too. I couldn't stop laughing. In seconds I’ve become hysterical--tears streamed down my cheeks. The fact that I’d lost complete control was funnier yet. Now I was half crying and laughing because they both look terrified of me. Me. John Watson. Florist. 

They both moved me from the kitchen chair to the living room. Well, more like dragged me as I laughed and choked. 

"I think you better lie down on the couch," Mary suggested, arm tightening around my waist. "He's been through a lot. May be he should come home with me.” 

I frantically shook my head. The last place I wanted to stay was with Mary. Too many strange men coming and going. Literally. Anderson the strangest. Not only that, right now, even after someone tossed the apartment, Sherlock’s place was still cleaner. 

Sherlock shook his head too. “No. He’s staying here.”

My choking and laughing fit seemed to subsiding, and Mary sat on the arm of the couch near my head.

“You don't want to?” she said, disappointment in her voice. “Still, you're going to need some clothes. I don't think you can fit into Sherlock’s." She bit back a grin. "My brother is your size. I can bring some of his."

"Have you contacted your insurance company yet?" she asked.

"No," I said, wiping my face with Sherlock’s robe. His mouth twitched when I did it. So I wiped my face with it again. This time instead, he made room for himself on edge of couch near my chest.

"You will stay here with me," he repeated, voice deep and firm. Now that might not be the best option--at least, it wasn't a  _ wise  _ one. “I want you here. It’s important you stay.” His lips pressed together in determination. 

"Far be it for me to step between a budding romance. Still, I'll bring over some clothes. I've got to get home; I've got to get ready,” she said, brushing my hair off my forehead. Sherlock rested his palm on my shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. “Phil's picking me up at about five." 

Well, I no way I would ever stay with her if he was there.

"Bye, Mary," I said. I heard her shut the door and the hollow sound of her shoes clacking down Sherlock's stairs. 

“That was uncomfortable,” I said, smiling up at Sherlock. He removed his hand like I’d burned it. “No, I don’t mean you--I meant Mary getting all motherly. I hate that.”

“I wouldn’t describe it as motherly.” I could hear a bit of jealously in that baritone. I liked it.

I sat up and Sherlock remained in place. Our noses bumped together. Our mouths so close. We hovered there, both undecided. 

“She still harbors feelings for you,” he said.   


I laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. Any fool could see it.”

I picked the guitar out of the case. “So, who bought it.” I turned it over in my hands, admiring it.   


“It was a collection. The band and fans pitched in.”

“And you?”

He gave me a smile back. I was glad the conversation switched away from Mary, but not glad that we hadn’t kissed. 

"I guess you have a house guest for a little while," I said, testing out the action on the guitar and practicing a new riff. "I hope you don't mind."

"No problem. But you already know I don’t sleep much and like to play my violin at odd hours. You know where my extra room is--you’ve crashed there enough. I picked up earlier. It's still trashed though. It’s fine if you stay in my room instead. The bed is more comfortable, and I don’t mind the couch.”

I nodded. “I don’t like kicking you out of your room.”

“You know I don’t sleep much.” He sat up and folded his hands, eyes flickering over my hands on the guitar. “I’ve taken inventory, checked all my possessions, nothing is missing. What the thieves were looking for was small as indicated by the way all the cabinets were emptied and drawers turned over in this apartment and in yours."

"You think it’s the card, don’t you?" I asked, and Sherlock gave me an incredulous lift of his eyebrow. I knew who we both suspected who too. The man who came out of my hospital room. The man with the flowers. 

My swollen hand was having a difficult time playing bar chords.

“Stay in my room. I’ll take the couch,” he said finally. 

I started to rummage through the case, searching for a pick but gave up. I could tell by the way he was stroking behind his ear, there was something else he wanted to tell me. I looked at him expectantly.

"Have you ever been hypnotized?" Sherlock asked.

"No. Why?" I laughed. I hadn’t expected that.

"I know this psychiatrist who owes me a favor--"

"Are you suggesting I might remember what the card said?"

"Actually, yes but also I was thinking along the lines of the conversation that transpired between you and Lestrade at the hospital. A psychiatrist I know runs a weight loss clinic using hypnotherapy part time. He has his own practice as well. A very good one."

"I'm in safe hands--a weight loss guru-hypnotist," I said, placing the guitar back in the case. "I hope he won't make me cluck like a chicken."

"I already set up an appointment. We must go; he's fitting you in. He’s only there two days per week."

"He won't turn my brain to mush will he? You know, I haven't been having the greatest luck lately." I thought for a moment. "Maybe he could get me to quit licking my lips. I’d save on chap stick." 

Sherlock was quick to reply, "No." And his eyes fixed on my mouth. Oh, hell.

_And maybe he could get me to not want Sherlock Holmes._   


"Well, hey, and while he's at it," I said, "see if I was King Tut in a past life. Or Shakespeare. I actually surprised you’d suggest this whole hypnosis thing--not very scientific. Is there any other reason we’re going there that you’re not telling me? You know, like you usually do."

It was always good to ask. Not that he’d tell me what his real motive for going. 

Sherlock sighed. “No hidden agenda today. As for hypnosis, you are right. To a degree. Hypnosis isn’t admissible in law to uncover facts about witness reports for a reason. I can’t and shouldn't be used a in psychotherapy to 'discover' memories. Memory doesn't work like that. But that doesn’t mean that memories can’t be recalled correctly during hypnosis especially if little time has elapsed from that particular memory. In your case, it’s very recent. Since memories are modified by experiences we've had  _ since _ the memory was first made, time is on our side to recall your incident precisely. As for past lives, that’s all vivid imagination and suggestion on the part of the subject and hypnotist.”

He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know. I am premed after all. But sometimes I just enjoyed listening to him being all brilliant. This aura of bliss surrounds him when he explains and deduces. It’s intoxicating. 

"I’m afraid you’ll have to wear what you wore coming home from the hospital. I do have some sweatpants and t-shirts you could wear but...”

I went for yesterday’s attire.

\----------------------

We cruised down 29 Mile Rd just south of town when it struck me. "Ah, Sherlock? This weight loss clinic--it doesn't happen to be at Hidden Hills?" I saw him shrug out of the corner of my eye. 

It was. 

"Oh my god! It’s that nudist camp!" I said. "What fucking next?" 

"It's been my experience that most people are really curious about what does go on in nudist colonies, which is nothing. But people have ideas about orgies and wife swapping. It's nothing deviant. It’s actually a philosophy that intersects with naturalism. Nudity is our natural state and our natural right."

I just gave him a dirty look, but he was dead on. Sherlock's parents were naturalists. Both professors at Albright College--father a professor of sociology, mother of biochemistry. I always thought it was confusing, watching your parents walk around in birthday suits. It was uncomfortable enough going over to visit him. Sherlock always kept his clothes on around me for the most part--although growing up in that environment gave him a freedom that my repressed Catholic upbringing didn’t. Still, I wouldn't want a naked image of  _ my _ parental units buzzing in my brain. Growing up seeing Sherlock's parents naked didn’t phase me  _ that  _ much, and I figured as a doctor it would help me objectively look at human genitalia as just another organ. However, for me as adolescent and teenage boy, that rationalizing didn’t always work.

"I hope you don't mind, but I wrote down some questions for him to ask you. Look them over." I scanned over the questions Sherlock handed me. I get motion sickness reading in a car--and just recalling of Sherlock’s parents walking around naked with martinis made me queasy enough. 

"This friend of yours, he does have his clothes on when he hypnotizes you?" I didn't think I could be hypnotized with someone else's dick hanging out not matter how I try to objectify it. Too distracting. "Can I keep  _ my _ clothes on?"

"Yes," Sherlock smiled. "And don't worry. He wears clothes. I'll keep mine on, too." Then he smiled wider. "Or would you like me to take mine off?" 

I fidgeted. Oh, he was joking. Okay, I got it.

But something else in his response made me realize that Sherlock had been to this man for professional reasons other than a case.

“Did he help you with your…”

“...addiction to cocaine? Yes.”

“And how did that work out for you?” I asked. He simply raised his eyebrow at me.

As we pulled into Hidden Hills, the muzak from the building piped out, "The Sound of Music." 

“Were you naked during the sessions?”

Sherlock snorted a laugh. “Of course not. Why would you even ask that?”

Just perfect. Now I was thinking of Sherlock. Naked. Having a hard on in a nudist colony isn’t cool.

I looked around. I don't know what I expected. Maybe naked people jogging up and down the trails. All the way down the drive, and zero skin. I started to feel disillusioned when I spotted a bouncing white belly exiting the building. I said belly, because that was really all I could see. We were parked next to Mr. Large Intestine's car, and I crouched way down in the seat, trying hard not to wonder where he puts his keys. He was on my side of the car, and I wasn't into making eye contact or catching a panoramic glimpse of his nether-regions. Hearing Sherlock's deep laughter, I slid back up in my seat, looking at Sherlock.

"I think this is too much nature for my taste," I said, making sure not to turn my head toward my side of the car window.

"You know, that car door does open." Sherlock pointed out.

"Very funny. Can we wait until this guy gets what he wants out of his car? I have a creepy feeling his ass is pressed flat to my window."

"He's gone, John. Come on. It's time. The doctor’s waiting for us." I took a deep breath. Might as well start a little self-induced hypnosis now.

Suddenly, the landscape filled with skin. "Oh, gosh," I whispered to Sherlock, "here comes another at 3 o'clock.  _ Hell-o _ ! Gravity is  _ not _ your friend."

A tall red-headed man-- er, woman waved at me. "Oh, my God, that's my neighbor," I said. "There's no fucking way I'm getting outta this car now."

"You have to, or we'll miss the appointment."

"Sherlock?" I asked. "Is this guy any good?" I closed my eyes--either weight loss via hypnosis didn't work, or these people weren't taking advantage of the clinic. "Does he have some kind of license to do this?" I asked.

"He's a psychiatrist. He has a license. He belongs to the ASCH--a health care specialist organization for hypnotists. I went to him. Use your  _ own _ brain. Would I put _my brain_ in some imbecile’s hands? Your brain will be safe. Now get out of the car." I held my breath and kept my eyes down.

We got out and walked straight through the front doors. I was relieved to see the waiting room was empty and both receptionists fully clothed.

"Hey, Sherlock," waved receptionist number one with the really big 80s hair.

"Doctor Deal is waiting in room one," said receptionist number two, winking at Sherlock. 

Both receptionists were checking me over.

"Alice is a good friend of my mom's," Sherlock explained. "I bet she's calling her right now. Or else she already had Mom on hold...gossips."

Sherlock led me to the back room. Mrs. Holmes had been hinting about us getting together for years. This was not good.  


"And what's behind door number one?" I said, crooning in a faux game show announcer's voice. I had to do something to get rid of these nerves. "It's a prepaid ticket to a dreamlike state! And here to tell us about the travel package is…”

“Dr. Peter Deal... Dr. Deal?" Sherlock finished, playing along.

A man, who I took for Dr. Deal bowed, pointing flamboyantly inside the room.

"Why yes, John Watson has won a round trip ticket. But let me start off my telling this fine winner about the trip--the myths and truths of hypnosis, as it were. First, a person will _never_ do anything they wouldn't ordinarily do. We call it the power of suggestion for a reason. It is merely a suggestion. I can't make you do anything you wouldn't normally do that’s against your moral fiber-- like sleep with Sherlock here--unless, of course, you were already inclined to do so."

Sherlock cleared his throat and blushed. Just how much information did he share about his personal life with Dr. Deal? 

"Second, this is not magic or some sort of cheap parlor trick," the doctor continued. "This is science. Almost anyone can be hypnotized, but creative types are more suggestible. From what Sherlock tells me, you fall into this category. As for past lives, forget it. Spontaneously reverting to a past life just doesn't happen. Much. I've been doing this for twelve years, and I've only seen it once--a famous actor who comes here." The doctor rolled his eyes. "Actors have vivid imaginations--this one did." He paused. "Finally, on the subject of recovered memories--I understand you want to remember something you have forgotten recently--so, I want to be clear here. Recovered memories most often are not memories at all, but possible outcomes predicted by the subject. I'm not saying that people can't remember where they put the keys to their Lexus under hypnosis. They can and do. They also remember without hypnosis. More often than not, it's their best hunch."  


"A Eureka moment under hypnosis?" I asked. 

"Exactly," he said. "However, when the incident in question is recent, it is possible to recover real memories. Real memory recall happens, but not as often since other new events mesh and blend together. And I also want to say, I won't let Sherlock here suggest anything off the wall while you're under."

"How comforting," I said.

"Now, where're the questions that you prepared?"

"Here," Sherlock said, handing him the steno pad.

"Ready?" he asked, and I nodded. 

"Lie back on the chair. Close your eyes. Tense your whole body. Now slowly relax every part of you. Start at the top of your head and move down…slowly… relax. Now you feel very light. Pretend you are weightless. Floating. Slowly lifting to the ceiling…" 

At this point, I really did feel light headed. He lifted my arm. 

"... you are walking through a garden. It is the most beautiful garden you've ever seen…you hear water gently flowing in a stream... you feel at peace… ahead you see a beautiful sunset… you walk toward it… one…two… three steps you take… with each step you take, you are more and more relaxed… four…five…six, the sunset is getting closer…seven… eight…"

"John? John?" I heard in a fog. I wasn't clear at first where I was. Then I remembered and looked at the clock-- 6:34. I think it was Sherlock and Dr. Peter Deal calling me, but my vision was a bit blurry.

"What did I say? Did I tell you what the card said?" I asked.

"No, you didn't," said Sherlock.

"What about Lestrade? What did he say to me?"

"You couldn't remember anything about that either," Sherlock said.

"Then what the hell did I talk about for over two hours?" I asked, frowning at the clock on the wall.

They looked at each other. 

"Hmm, where to start? Do you want to take this one Sherlock?" 

I stared at them.

"You have a really excellent imagination," Sherlock said. "I always knew that, but now I have proof positive. I’m glad you recorded him," he turned to the doctor. "He has a thing about recording sessions. He doesn’t do video, but he has audio. I took notes too. Not that I could ever forget a word." He leafed through the yellow memo pad now filled with his notes.

"Well?" I said, trying to glimpse what was on the pad. I didn't like this. What could I possibly have said that could fill that many pages?

"You could be the next Taylor Caldwell," Dr. Deal said as he sat forward in his seat. "You recalled a past life. You were this school teacher…"

"What the hell? How did this happen?" I said to the good doctor. "I thought you said this type of thing doesn't happen. Spontaneous…"

The doctor held up his hand. "This wasn't spontaneous…exactly…"

"Then what exactly was it?" I asked, angrily.

"Exactly?" the doctor said. "When I got nowhere with the questions, Sherlock mentioned that you said you wanted to stop licking your lips, but he really didn’t want you to stop. And on an aside we talked about the discussion you had on the way here about past lives. I never suggested it.”

"Don't blame Deal. It was my fault. He's worried about malpractice. All I said was  _ regress _ ," Sherlock said. "And Bang--you started talking about your life as a school teacher named Daniel Camden in the year 1870 living in Freeport, Michigan. You think you're having a bad time in this life! What's happened to you in the past weeks is nothing compared to what that school teacher went through."

It was one of those times that I felt like punching him.

"That," said Deal, sensing my heat, "is exactly the point. A way for your psyche to heal. Telling yourself…life could be worse. Very constructive actually." 

I wondered if he was trying to justify letting Sherlock "suggest" a past life to me. Didn't strike me as very professional. But look _where_ he practices. I searched at the walls for his diploma. What University did he hail from anyway--the Pillsbury Doughboy School of Psychology?

"The mind has many ways to heal itself," he added. 

Where'd he get that aphorism from--a fortune cookie? This was getting better by the moment.

Now, the good doctor was checking the clock.

"Sorry we've kept you," I said sarcastically. “Hope your next patient didn’t have to cancel.”

"This is Saturday. I have no other patients. But I do need to go."

We walked out the door to the car, and I kept averting my eyes, trying not to see too much naked anatomy. 

"I thought you said this was an appointment, not a special circumstance," I said, shutting the car door. "All that rush, rush, rush to get here."  


"The point was to get here. I did what was necessary."

I sat in the car for a moment, then looked over at him, fuming.

“You’re angry with me,” Sherlock said.

“No shit! Of course I’m angry with you, Sherlock! You were playing with my brain! After telling me you wouldn’t! Is this some form of cerebral entertainment for you! I’m surprised you didn’t sell tickets! Why do you always have to do something like this?!”

“It was fascinating, John. You are fascinating.”

“Fascinating!? Fascinating!?” 

We rode in silence, and I clenched my teeth and stomped my feet against the floorboards. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. “Oh, hell. Damn it Sherlock…”   _ I had to know.  _ “Tell me about this so-called past life of mine.”

"It was not a past life. It was a fabrication created by your mind."

Sherlock bounced in the driver’s seat with anticipation. The fucking dick. He couldn't wait to tell me. "At first you talked about everyday details,” he said, glowing. “For example, this teacher signed a contract forbidding him to date or get married, or he would lose his job."

"Most teachers had contracts like that back then."

"Yes. So that would be something you'd already knew! Like prior knowledge. Excellent! You are so...not boring, John Watson!” He waved his hand excitedly and looked at me like he was about to kiss me.

“Hands on the wheel, Sherlock. You’re driving, remember?”

“Also, your subconscious invented this married man in the tale, a local pastor. The evil antagonist. He left you flowers--not you, of course, your alter ego, your this school teacher, although you did relate this as first person point of view. This pastor also followed and wrote love letters to ‘the teacher.’  The admirer got you, I mean Camden, fired from his teaching position over these letters."

I didn't like where this was going. It sounded too much like a Salvador Dali painting of my recent life experiences. Sherlock on the other hand, was loving this. It was like another mystery for him.

"What was even more fascinating was the inflection in your voice--your tenor, tone, word choice. It was you, but not you. Like an endopsyche. Before this, I thought the whole previous life idea ludicrous. But you were spectacular. You are a marvel.”

“Sherlock. Enough.”

“Yes! When you read the note that Pastor gave you...I mean  _ the schoolmaster _ ...  Well, I'll let you read these notes over that yourself... They were pretty sexually explicit--what the so-called minister wanted to do to the schoolmaster. Bondage, and well, you get the idea. And how Camden confronted the pastor after the pastor got him fired from his teaching position. Then the pastor had a psychotic break with reality. His letters to Camden were no longer those a person enamored, instead filled with hate, turned graphic, violent."

He handed me the memo pad. I hated reading in the car. "I wrote it down. The man you invented was insane. The usual archetypal evil madman--he left a dead starling sealed in a gift wrapped box--its neck broken, a Jungian imago of sorts. Most fascinating that it parallel your nightmares. Birds, flying, falling. Your description was very detailed. Tactile." 

I shook my head. This was no past life, just my imagination. Not even original either. I've read that scenario and seen it on made-for-TV movies more than once.

"The schoolmaster found the package, setting just inside his front door next to his coat stand," Sherlock continued. "It was Sunday. Camden was furious. He decided to confront his tormentor. Only this time in his own church. When he went to leave, he shoved his foot in his boot, he felt a sticky, sharp pain. A straight razor was inside. Most disturbing hearing you so detached during this part, yet the projection was uncanny." 

"All made up," I said. "I lifted that straight from the 'Cruel Shoes' skit," then I recited animatedly. " _ Carlo looked incredulous. 'No, Anna, you don't understand, you see, the cruel shoes are...'  _ "

"Yes, I caught the allusion to Steve Martin. And please refrain from your impersonations," he said. "You’ve made me watch SNL far too many times. Do you want to hear more or not?"

I decided I better stop with Carlos and Anna. I'd rather do Steve Martin than listen to this though, but Sherlock was getting that pissy face he gets. I could tell because he kept tapping the steering wheel a bit more forceful than usual. A cigarette was his next step. 

"Go ahead,” I said.

Suddenly, Crack! A bird hit Sherlock's wind-shield. 

Sherlock braked. "What kind of bird is that?"

"A Kamikaze pigeon," I answered, catching my breath from the seat belt's pressure. "Mission successful, too."  

"Look, it cracked my windshield." 

"Don't you think you better stop the car and wipe it off? It's disgusting." 

Sherlock barely acknowledged me. I guess he wasn't going to stop his car, and he turned his windshield wipers on instead, smearing the gore back and forth. He used the wiper fluid to get most of it cleared off. We were almost to Baker Street anyway. He sighed and looked over at me. For me, part Sherlock's appeal stemmed from the microscopic lens he trained on his subjects. As I was now the subject and the observer, I'd forgotten how angry I was at him. The gore on the wind shield became irrelevant. I needed to hear him finish.   


"Camden confronted him in church," Sherlock said, fingers gripping the steering wheel. "He went in front of entire congregation and told them what their minister'd done. Camden waved the letters in the air, handed a deacon the letters the pastor penned.”

“I take it that didn’t work out too well for my alter ego.”

“No, the pastor denied it all, and his wife said the letters weren’t in her husband's handwriting."

"Sounds familiar--late-night movie plot maybe?" 

"The reverend told the congregation that Satan was whispering into the schoolmaster's ear. Said Camden spewed lies from the devil. No one believed Camden, or if they did, they were too frightened to step forward. The school teacher left in shame.”

“No so bad.”

“Not over. The pastor came to Camden’s door seeking forgiveness--or that's what he claimed. Camden didn't trust him. He told him to leave--" Sherlock hesitated. "We’re home. I should stop and get the blood off my car." 

"Keep talking." Might as well hear it to the end. 

Sherlock pulled into his driveway and parked the car. For some reason, he didn't want to tell me what came next.  



	5. Strangers in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit longer with some angst! Enjoy.

Sherlock pulled the garden hose off the side of the house and rinsed what was left of the errant bird off his Cutlass. I stood, hands in my pockets, waiting. He wiped the car dry carefully with an old chamois, inspecting the damage. 

"Does insurance cover replacement for windshields?" Sherlock asked.

"Probably, but depends on your deductible. How high is it?" 

"Two-hundred." 

"It'll cost more than that," I said, sitting down on the concrete steps, my back flat against the black wrought iron railing. I thumbed through the notepad, reading key words. "So, tell me the rest of the schoolmaster's story."

He sat down next to me on the steps--his knees touching mine. For some reason, he hesitated.   


"Fine," I said. "Give me the abridged version." 

"The minister killed Camden," Sherlock said, scratching at a spot of dried ink on his jeans. "Then he rummaged through Camden's home and took the notes he'd written. He wrapped the body in an old wool blankets from the bedroom, then buried him in the woods next to the church."

"How'd he kill him?" I asked, flipping the last pages of the memo pad.

"Camden turned his back on him, and first the good minister hit him in the back of the head with a cast iron door-stop, then seeing the fight was out of Camden--" Sherlock paused. "He strangled him."

I read a few of the comments Sherlock had written down. His notes seemed to end there.

"So, he got away with it," I said. My heart pounded. I was surprised that my hand holding the pad shook. I shouldn’t affect me like this, my mouth trembling. Fuck, I was a mess. What was wrong with me? I needed to get a grip.

"John," he said, resting his hand on my knee, "you have a marvelous imagination. With all that’s happened, it's like Peter Deal said, you so intricately wove and assimilated past and present events, it’s no wonder this experience has profoundly affected you." I think Sherlock said this as much for his own benefit as mine. "You're right. He did get away with murder. Everyone believed Camden left town. A couple of people did come looking for him--his sister and her husband. You gave her the name of Emma Lestrade."

Sherlock sat silently for a few moments, then turned to me. "Think about this, John. It’s an allegory for your own life, and what's happened to your family."

I wasn't surprised. This was  _ my _ imagination, after all.

"She wanted to know what happened to her brother," he said. "She and her husband went to Freeport, looking for him. Someone from the congregation told them the lie that Camden became infatuated with the local pastor. She didn't believe a word of it. How is that like what’s happened to you?"

I glanced down at the pad in my hand. “You. I wouldn’t listen to you then. Even now. I can’t believe that…”

"Let's go in--I'm sure you’re starved," Sherlock said. "And I can hear Toby." It hadn't occurred to me until that moment that all I had today was coffee, no wonder I was shaky.

We found a brown paper bag of clothes from Mary at the top of the stairs. In neat black marker she'd written:  _ have a good time tonight _ . Folded inside I found three pairs of worn jeans, a black sweater, assorted t-shirts, socks, plaid flannel pjs and a package of unopened briefs. I hated briefs.

Sherlock laid his keys on the kitchen counter and stretched as Toby jumped up and down around him with his leash in his mouth. 

"Why don't you take a bath and relax. I'll take Toby out for a quick walk, then make dinner," he said.

Sounded perfect especially since he didn’t cook that often. I took the memo pad. Not the most relaxing reading material, but I had to read it. I grabbed a t-shirt and red flannel pajama bottoms from Mary's care package and headed for the bathroom. 

It was spotless as usual. 

Towels stacked. Shampoo lined up. He had a thing for expensive hair products and body washes. Floor sparkled. One look in the medicine cabinet, confirmed Sherlock was a secret neat-freak. I set the pad down on the counter. I stripped off my clothes and adjusted the water to super hot. Sherlock liked to keep the air-conditioner set to “create iceberg,” making the hot bath water welcome. Besides, sweating in a hot tub would get the ache out. 

I inched into the tub and stretched back. I picked up the pad, careful not to get it wet, and I read. The parallels to my own life were disturbing--at least in some areas. When I got to the last couple of pages, I stopped. I'd already skimmed that part outside on the steps and got the idea--no need to revisit. Fuck. Why would I ever invent shit like this? It made me sick. I'd almost feel better if this  _ was  _ a past life, not something I fabricated.

I closed my eyes and nodded off for a bit. I woke, and the water had cooled. I flicked the drain lever with my big toe. Sherlock's dinner smelled delicious. Definitely chicken, lemon and chives. And a hint of vanilla. I dried off and dressed quickly; I’d slept longer in the tub than I’d thought.

I stopped short when I walked out of the bathroom. Soft classical music and candle light. Vanilla candles. Sherlock walked out of the kitchen with two goblets and a bottle of white wine. Toby slept on the braided throw rug in the livingroom, legs kicking in a doggy dream.

"Dinner's ready," he said, noting my glance at the table. 

"God, this looks...like a date,” I said and immediately wanted to take back the words. 

“We can call it that, if you’d like, but I thought it would help make up for all that’s happened. I don’t cook much, and I find I do enjoy it at times. Cooking is a lot like science. Measuring. Chemistry of reducing a sauce, every texture and flavor a result of interacting molecules. Sorry, John, I didn't mean to go on..." 

"Don't apologize. It looks great." I smiled. He'd gone to a lot of trouble. I can't remember anyone going to this much trouble for me. Linen napkins, wine, candlelight. I sat down, and Sherlock poured the fine Italian wine. I took a sip. Not too dry. I helped myself to the main dish. “If you want to call this a date, that’s good for me.”

"I know it's just a casserole, but it's my mum's recipe," he said, watching me eat and ignoring my last comment.

"It's fantastic," I said with my mouth full. "I remember it. I don't cook much except easy stuff like eggs and stir fry. The only home-cooked meals I get anymore are from Mary, and her cooking sucks. Then of course, there’s Mrs. Hudson. She’s always giving me her ‘leftovers’ that aren’t really left over."    


“She’s always coming up here with cakes, stews, soups and sandwiches for me too,” he said. “I surprised she hasn’t been up here yet to pester us.”

I laughed. “Don’t worry. She will.”

"Yes, I know," he said, reaching across the table and grasping my hand. It felt really nice.

"I was hungrier than I realized." I said, taking another taste of the wine.  Sherlock refilled my glass. I took another roll and a second helping of the casserole.

"I was reading your notes while I was in the tub. I honestly don’t know what to think of it all. My subconscious mind was sure working overtime."

Sherlock stared at me. The classical music changed to Frank Sinatra, his voice crooning in the background. Sherlock seemed to come to some resolve. 

"Although I don't believe in past lives, it is an interesting premise. I do think that there were details you gave were very precise. There was one element that disturbed Dr. Deal," Sherlock said, touching the rim of his wine glass a moment. "Don't you wonder why you didn't recall what happened?"

"I hit my head on the steering wheel. I was in shock," I said, pouring myself some more wine.

"No, I meant during the session, while you were hypnotized."

"I guess I didn’t stop to think about that. I should, shouldn’t I? Don’t they say something like 'when I count to three you will wake up and remember everything.'"

“Yes.”

"Then, I fact that I don't remember? Is that a problem?"

"No, because Peter told you not to remember. He thought it best that you didn't. He thinks it's possible it's a past life, in a fashion."

I laughed. "No. He thinks it's reincarnation?"

"No, not that. I already told you. It’s your life. It's most likely allegorical. Symbolic. He thinks you should go to another psychiatrist. To talk about this."

I gave Sherlock a blank look. "Talk about what?"

"Other memories. Ones you don’t want to talk about." 

"I read the rest of the notes," I said, choking on my wine a bit. "Maybe it is allegorical. I get that."

"Yes. It is. All the more reason to go speak to somebody.”

“I can’t believe, you, of all people, would suggest I seek professional help. It wasn't that long ago that you called psychiatrists, what? Charlatans?”

“I said most are. And I don't buy the idea of repressed memories. Still, you should take what Peter said seriously," Sherlock said. "I'd say go to him. But I think he's too close to my family. And he’s treated me. He’s no charlatan. You need to talk to someone. And also consider acting." He chuckled a bit. 

I laughed along with him. It might be the wine. "You know you still really haven’t answered me. But I'll think about talking to someone, but drop it for now."

"What about going over to your house tomorrow?" he asked, changing the subject. "You probably should go check out the damage. I'll go with you."

"Yeah, I should," I said. Truth was, I didn't want to face it. Family photo albums, my old acoustic guitars, my mom's old upright Grand piano, all the music I'd written. If Sherlock went with me, at least I wouldn't have to face it alone. And he could also look for clues.

"This discussion is too serious," I said. "I'll help you clear the table, and we'll talk about it later." 

We picked up the dishes, scraped and rinsed them off. I had a bit of a buzz from the wine. Sherlock filled the dishwasher, and I went to get the casserole dish, humming and singing with Frankie to "Strangers In the Night."

 

I turned around.  Sherlock was there, and Frankie was crooning “something in your eyes, was so inviting.”

I hesitated, looking into those cat-like eyes, green like sea-mist, then down to his perfect bow top lip and pouty bottom. Despite jeans and cotton button-up shirt, he always looked like he stepped off GQ. He leaned into me, pressing my back side hard into the table. 

“Remember when I taught you to slow dance?” he asked, mouth brushing my ear and sending a shiver through me.

“For Prom,” I recalled. His shoulder brushed past my arm as he leaned down and blew the candle out behind me. I bumped the table and the casserole dish rattled.

“You went with Mary,” he said with a hit of bitterness.

He took my hand and lead me. Shoulders straight, parallel to floor, eyes fixed to mine, he was amazing. He glided with me, the rise and fall of the music spinning us around the room. Pendulum-like, swaying. Always smooth and confident steps. He rounded to the kitchen table again, elegant and beautiful. Hair tousled. We were to the table, my back to it when the music stopped.

Sherlock shifted his body, but didn't pull away. Instead he lingered, and I leaned back as he leaned forward. He pushed his hips into mine. Both my hands grasped the edge of the table, supporting my weight. Hesitated. That complex brain calculated. My arms buckled a little as he bent forward and brushed his lips to mine. Lightly. He drew slowly up, searching my eyes begging for permission. God, he had to feel my erection through this thin flannel. I pushed up into him. His supreme dance. Permission granted-- 

I wanted to taste his lips. One hand delicately circled my ear, and he placed his other hand on top of my left hand, clutching the table. I waited. He pressed into me harder. My arms buckled and gave, elbows and forearms fell flat to the table in back of me. He looked into me, through me--those eyes eating me alive. He kissed me again, this time, mouth open. I tasted him--white wine with a bit of lemon.

His tongue tickled the roof of my mouth, making me harder. It felt strange, yet welcome. His long fingers toyed with the fine hairs in my ear. Our teeth clanked together. God, he was wicked, the way he rhythmically rocked his hips into mine. Unreal, how much I wanted him. How much I loved this. I squeezed my eyes tight, rocking--an delicious sensation. His tongue flicked the inside of my cheek and then twirled around inside, tasting me. I could feel his cock, long and rock hard against my hip.

My turn. I pulled my mouth away and gasped, then went in for more. I shoved my tongue as far down his throat as I could. Sherlock's teeth clamped down, and my throat constricted in strangled surprise. His teeth had me--not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to keep my tongue prisoner in his mouth. He sucked on it hard, persistent, running his own tongue under mine. I felt like a guitar's E string, wound too tight, ready to pop. The trembling in my arms moved up my shoulders, into my chest. Shit, Sherlock's simulated fellatio was gonna make me come like some adolescent boy right there on the table. He bucked against me, and I was shaking hard and right on the edge, gasping into his mouth. I was pretty damn sure he was as close as I was.

I was desperate. Then, he let go. Stopped--pulled away. My eyes flew open, wide with surprise. Just one more suck, one more push, and I'd have come right against him. He read the question in my eyes.

I tried to pull myself away from the table, but my legs wouldn't hold me, sweat dripping off me in the air-conditioned Popsicle of a room. I couldn't speak. I bit my lip, licked it, struggling to get my arms out from under me.

I saw Sherlock, fighting with some kind of internal decision--my sincere hope was that he planned to pin me on the couch or finish me in the bedroom. He began pacing in front of me, running his hands through those wild curls. I watched, in shock. But no. He finally spun around to me, frowned and cleared his throat. 

I managed to spit out, "Why did you stop?" He opened his mouth to speak but didn't. Then, instead of answering, he moved over to the couch to sit down. I just stared over at him in disbelief. Had I just imagined what happened? I walked on wobbly legs to the couch.

"What was that?" I asked, staring down at him. "Some kind of test? Experiment?"

"No," he said, meeting my eyes. "I promised myself I wouldn't do this. Not doing too well."

"You were doing fine." I smiled at him.  


"Will you stop looking at me like that?" he asked. "It makes it harder when you look..." The frustration in his voice was unmistakable. 

"Don't take this the wrong way..." he said, and I already was. Who starts any sentence with those words with anything positive? "...but, I'm your first. I'm your experimental model.” He laughed at the irony. “The problem with being an experimental model is that particular model usually don't work out in the end. You test it and then..."

"You're wrong," I said. "And what the hell was that all about just now?” I was getting angry. I shouldn’t be. I know. I was the one who kept saying I wasn’t gay, that he and I were just friends. I had no right to be angry with him. Still. 

"John, I want to be around much longer than a test model. That's a bit more important than your dick or mine."

"Seems to me, I'm the one being tested, not you. And what am I supposed to do with this?" I said, grabbing my crotch. "Go beat off?"

Sherlock's nose twitched, then he rubbed the back of his neck. "That or sit down, watch TV and play Scrabble or Clue with me."

"Play Scrabble? Are you fucked in the head? I have a huge hard on here. Why in almighty fuck would you want us to  _ play Scrabble _ ?"

"That or watch old movies..." Sherlock said, picking the remote off the coffee table and turning it on. He looked over at me and sighed. "Listen, I've waited for you for a lot longer than one desperate evening. I'm not going to blow what we could have by fucking you because we're both horny. You're not the only one with a hard on."

"Yes, I noticed. Oh, hell," I yelled. "I guess I'll go beat off in the bedroom!" I knew Sherlock had to be desperate to even suggest watching movies. He usually detested watching them.  


"Go for it," he said, throwing me the Kleenex box off the end-table. “And sleep in my room, why don’t you?”

 

"I will! You fuck! You utter cock!" I said, catching the box. I stomped off into his bedroom. Not like he ever slept in it. I almost slammed the door, but then changed my mind. I left it open. Let him listen, the shit.

I threw myself down on the bed. I made sure my moans would carry well out into the other room. I was getting into this. I knew he was out there. The bastard never slept. I figured the more vocal the better. After a few minutes, Sherlock turned down the sound to the television a bit. The ass  _ was  _ listening. Good. I got myself hotter, and hoped he could hear the wet sound of me jerking my cock up and down. He  _ could _ have been in here. I thought about those lips and how they felt against my neck, and how they might feel on my cock. And just before I came I cried out, "Hey, Sherlock! This is for you!" And when I came, I swore unintelligibly. Very satisfying.

I noticed Sherlock had turned the sound completely off on the TV. 

He was groaning. Must be he's doing what I did. He wasn't as vocal, but it was hot to hear him. I laughed when he came.   


Ha, ha, I had the Kleenex. 

\---------------------

I woke sore and tired and a little bit guilty for my antics the night before. I vaguely recalled dreaming that I was flying--I wasn't myself. In my dream, I glanced at my hands seeing little brown sparrow wings. I remembered someone telling me I was weightless. Caught helpless in an air current, I heard a clicking in the distance up ahead. I glided, sucked toward the sound, into an old broken-down bell tower. Then I woke. 

Shit. Then, I remembered last night. The uneasy impression I usually felt knowing a great dream wasn't real, diminished. I heard the click, click, click from my dream--and it was Sherlock on his laptop in the other room. I also remembered my little revenge--if a screaming, maniacal masturbator could ever be vengeful. 

Sherlock was working on a Sunday morning. What a work-a-holic. I never work on Sundays unless Sherlock has me on one of his cases chasing who knows what. I rolled over and looked at the alarm clock and groaned--9:22 with a dot. 

What  _ was _ the real purpose of those stupid digital dots anyway? Why can't they make them straight forward and say  _ a..m _ or  _ p.m. _ ? There was no universal dot meaning--on one clock the top dot means  _ a.m. _ , another it's  _ p.m _ . Probably some type of traveler's conspiracy theory to never know night from day. I imagined the evil clock maker now with his magic wand on the assembly line tapping each clock as each rolled by, "Dot… no dot… dot… no dot…" 

I had an urge to pull the covers back over my head and sleep forever. Maybe I could fly out of this mess of a life like a sparrow in my dream. Maybe nothing else would happen if I just stayed in this bed. Although, last night I would have preferred something did happen other than with my own hand.

Might as well get up and face Sherlock.

I sorted through the clothes Mary gave me. I held up the jeans--relaxed button-fly Levis. The only time I wore skin tight anything was on stage. I only wore them because the other band members razzed me to wear leather or stupid fish net. I hated it.

I sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed and looked around his room--something I hadn't done before now. All the furniture in the room matched. All colonial antique cherry. Very nice collection. I felt relieved to see dust collecting on the dresser. His housekeeper that wasn't a housekeeper didn't come in here.

He had novels stacked on the floor next to the bed and some spilling underneath. I checked the titles and authors. An eclectic taste--sci-fi, classics, detective novels--I noticed a few of my favorite authors, Kurt Vonnegut and Tolkien, but mostly science journals. Franz Kafka novel, half hidden under the bed. A book of poetry by e.e. cummings on his night stand.

I always have the urge to open closets. I know it was nosy just like looking in people's medicine cabinet (or secretly reading customers' cards), but I couldn't resist. Besides, Sherlock was far worse snoop than I could ever pretend to be. He just didn’t care if you knew he was looking. Just a regular closet. More organized than my dad's, messier than Mary's, and much neater than mine. With a lot more clothes. Nice clothes. He really liked clothes.

Sherlock knocked on the bedroom door. 

"Yes?" I said, snapping the closet door shut.

"Just checking to see if you're up. I need to get dressed. I forgot to get some out last night." Ahh, yes, last night. 

"You can come in." His red silk bathrobe was open. No shirt and underwear only underneath.

"Nice boxers," I said. Silk Looney Tunes with emerald green background.

"One of those Christmas presents you can't take back," he said, bending over. My his ass looked hot in them. I wouldn't take them back either. "There's cereal in the cupboard, milk in the fridge. Help yourself," he said.

I went out to the kitchen grabbed a cup of coffee and then walked over to his desk. I wanted to take a look-n-see at his laptop and find out what he was working on so diligently on a Sunday morning. Another something Sherlock wouldn’t think twice about doing to me. He walked out about then and caught me in the act. Not that he needed to catch me to know that I’d looked.

"Just doing a little research," he said.

"That’s the Later Day Saints family search site."

"Caught me. I was looking up your past life. The one I didn't believe in. Guess what? There was a Daniel Camden born in Michigan during that time. I bookmarked it. Notice that the date of death is unknown."

"There's nothing on here about other ancestors," I commented, skimming it over.

"That's not unusual, a few of the birth records prior to the 1900s don't include ancestors. But if we have his birth date, it's possible to find family history and places of employment."

"Interesting, but is it really important if this is just allegorical?"

"I know you. You'll wonder. And you know me. I'll obsess. It’s something you’ve read before. A person you heard about, maybe a family story. I’ll work on this while you're at work tomorrow," Sherlock said. "Oh, and you had a phone call from Smith earlier."

"You answered my phone? Why am I ever surprised. More surprise, that he's up already." Of course he was looking through my iPhone when it rang. What’s new? And Mary? She’s already out telling the world where I'm residing after she said she’d keep it quiet. No surprise there either.

"The band is worried about you. They want you come to practice at Smith's later today even if you don’t feel up to playing." We usually practice there or in my basement studio--the one I don't have anymore. Goodbye studio. I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach thinking of all the equipment and memories destroyed. "I told him we were going over to your place later this morning to check it over. Do you still feel up to it?"

"Might as well."

\---------------------

We avoided the topic of last night until the ride to my house. I was thinking about how much I hated going to see my burned up life when I alluded to my behavior. 

"No, it was my fault. Seriously, John. I'm sorry. Not sorry how it turned out, but sorry for starting it."

I wasn’t sorry that he started it. I was sorry that he didn’t finish it. I was still pissed at him. 

"You're a friend, my best friend," he said. "First and foremost, regardless of whatever else I feel for you, that’s what you’ll always be. Nothing will change that for me. I want you to stay, especially with everything that's happened." 

So, he liked listening? 

"So that means...what? Until you're sure, we keep it at just friends?" I asked.

"Yes. It means I want you, but I want to be more than an  _ experimental model _ , which means I won't start anything again until I'm sure."

"Sure of me?"

"Sure of us both," he said, turning down my street. And there was my home. 

Usually I was the level-headed one. The one who stepped back, asked questions and didn't rush in. It was odd that he was the cautious one.  


In the daylight, it didn't look as bad. The old place was still standing. Glass crunched beneath our feet as we walked around the outside. We noticed most of the damage was in the front living room and my bedroom directly upstairs from it. The only unbroken window was the one to my back kitchen door. The stale smell of burned plastic and insulation clung in my nose. I delayed going inside for as long as possible until Sherlock broke through the yellow tape and ventured inside first.

Maybe it was best I saw the worst right away. 

Nothing was left of the living room. The wall eaten through, springs sat on the floor where the sofa once was. Ironically, there was still logs left piled next to the fireplace. I knelt down into the charred sticks and ashes where my old oak bookcase once stood. All my photo albums, diaries, books and personal letters were gone, transformed into piles of ashes and soggy pages spread on the charred floor. This had to be one of the focal points of the fire--a hot spot so intense that from where I stood I could Iook down into the basement through a hole in the hardwood floor, and look up through a hole in the ceiling to my second floor bedroom at the charred roof rafters, and beyond to the open sky. 

A trail of fire raced through the house with hot spots of intensity that burned through every floor. 

"The accelerate was poured across the floor in a line," he said, pushing his hands into his pockets, "then large quantities dumped here and other hot spots. You can observe the irregular burn patterns." I looked back around me, remembering all the hard work I'd done pulling out the old olive shag carpet and stripping the oak floors. I got three month’s rent knocked off for the work. As I looked down into the pit of the hot spot Sherlock pointed to, I could tell the fire only scorched the basement. The real damage in the basement was from the water, putting out the fire and some of the floors that collapsed down. Sherlock was careful to lead me through safely. He done this too many times before to not know what he was doing.

We walked back to the kitchen. It was salvageable. Unfortunately, the rest of the house was a wash.

The staircase was fine. It looked like the fire had just flashed up the walls to the next story. Soot blanketed the hallway. Boot imprints stamped the upstairs. 

We made our way carefully to my bedroom. "Nice skylight," Sherlock commented, trying his best to cheer me.

Nothing left to do but look at the basement.

I already knew the studio was a loss. A torrent of water worked its way down through the floor and in its wake everything was saturated. The padding on the walls reeked. There was standing water at the bottom of my twelve string guitar case. The fine wood had warped. I would sit down, but there was no spot that was dry or not covered with soot.

"Let's go," I said. "I've seen enough." We sloshed across the basement floor where puddles of sludge had pooled, up the stairs and out the back door. I didn't bother to look at the piano.   


I felt a gnawing in my gut and my head pounded. 

I needed to get out of here. I needed to take a bath.

\-----------------------------

I didn't think I'd ever get the smell out. It lingered in my hair and clothes. I threw them aside. I jumped in the tub and scrubbed and scrubbed. I put on clean jeans and t-shirt. I still smelled like fire. I think smells can hold you prisoner. Even though logic tells you they're gone, they linger inside your sinuses.

I kept thinking I smelled it in my hair, my body all that afternoon. Following me. Not the whole while, but it came and went. Just enough to stay in the back of my mind. A reminder.

I asked Sherlock what he deduced from it all. He said he was sure they came and left through the back kitchen door. Less damage. A means of escape. They also ransacked the place. I even noticed my dresser drawers had been dumped and books shoved off the book cases. Sherlock was positive more than one person was in the house.

Part of me wanted to go practice with the guys. Part of me was afraid to. Since the night I saw my substitute on stage, I felt like I'd been turned in for a better model. Sherlock was not the only one with a complex. Although I had no real reason to feel this way, it was kinda like the smell of soot in my hair--came and went yet never quite left. Sherlock tried to convince me I needed to do this. He wanted to find out more about this man who seemed to know my music as well as I knew it myself. 

I grabbed the guitar, and we left.

\--------------------------

Smith's garage had terrible acoustics. It's not unusual for objects hanging on the wall, like hammers and saws, to vibrate, fly off and hit you while playing. Pruning shears leave nasty scars. Still, without my studio, we were limited to where we could practice. Jimbo's wife kicked us out of their house years ago, and Bill never had a residence long enough to practice in.

When Sherlock went to drop me off, I could tell he wanted me to invite him to stay and listen. He's done it many times over the years, and the band never cared--much. We like having an audience. Spouses, friends and significant others often sat and listened to us play, argue and joke around. But Sherlock would invariably say something insulting, because that’s what he does. I almost sent Sherlock down the road until I saw the substitute was already hooked up in the garage. As soon as Sherlock saw he was there, he was out of his car.

"Hello beautiful," Bill said, giving me one of his suffocating bear hugs. "Looking better. Your black eyes are almost gone." He winked at Sherlock.

"We want you to meet the man who was nice enough to sub for you," Bill said, scratching his head. "We were thinking about adding another member. Now, don't get the wrong idea. Sherlock told me you thought we wanted to replace you. Like we could ever replace you? You're one of the best as a writer and a musician. But you know that what the band has needed since the very beginning is someone with a strong distinctive voice. I think he can bring that to our band. He's an adequate guitarist, but exceptional vocalist."

"You're so full of shit," I said to Bill. "You have a great voice, so does Jim. What the hell is this really about? Connections?"

"Well, yeah, that's another part of it. I can't say it isn't. We would never replace you. Shit, you were a founding member of the band! You're what's kept us from tearing out each others throats. You've kept our heads above water. You're the wind beneath over wings for Christ’s sake."

"Enough of the mixed metaphors. I came here to practice."

I sat the guitar case down. "And by the way, where'd this guitar come from?" I asked.

"We bought it. So shut the fuck up," Bill said, smacking me in the shoulder. "We care about you, you dumb ass."

"I deserved that. Thank you. It's just like my old one. Where'd you get it?" I asked.

"Bought it from the new guy," Bill said. Shit, I was beginning to feel ungrateful again. 

That's when I opened the case, and there it was under the guitar.

"Holy, Shit!" I yelled. 

Everyone thought I was off on another nut, and Sherlock bent to look at what the hell was in my guitar case. He stood up. The card was in his hand.

"The missing card!" I said.

"What are you talking about?" Bill asked.

"Long story," I replied, looking at the small envelope in between Sherlock's fingers. The top was ragged and a bloody thumb print--my blood--stained the front. I must have opened it after the accident. Odd, I never ripped envelopes open. Sherlock pulled out the card and looked at it-- 

He turned it over and showed it to me. All I saw were a series of L's and O's.

"Ones and zeros," Sherlock said to himself.

"Ones and zeros? What does that mean?" I asked, looking the card over more carefully.  


"Binary code. For computers."

"You think that's what it is?" I asked Sherlock.

"I can't think of anything else it could be."

"But why would he send his mom flowers with a card written binary code?" I asked. Sherlock shrugged. 

“I’m more concerned how it got in the case since it wasn’t there before. I looked through the case,” Sherlock said. 

"What are you two talking about?" Bill asked. "Let's jam, Spam!" Leave it to Ol’ Bill to use archaic guitar witticisms. 

I plugged my guitar into the amp and turned to face our new member. 

"Here," Bill said. "I want you to officially meet our new member, Sean Lestrade-Hopkins."

" _Lestrade_? Your name is _Lestrade_?" I stopped tuning my guitar. 

Sherlock was immediately in the man’s space. "Related to the Lestrade who lives out on River Road," he stated.

"Yeah, that's my grandma. Why? You know 'er?"

"Small world," said Sherlock. "Too small. And that card. When did you put that in the case?"

“What card?” he asked. 

Sherlock squinted his eyes and stared at him. This Sean character stood in front of us shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The rest of the members were waiting for Sherlock to deduce him.   


He didn't. 

After finding the card and the true identity of the mysterious new band member, I didn't want to practice. But the show must go on. So I bit the big one and practiced the rest of the afternoon although I couldn't get into it. I had to grudgingly admit that Sean had a great voice. Better yet, his voice meshed with the rest of ours like he was created for that purpose. Fucking hell.

Sherlock sat in a lawn chair just outside garage doorway. He was most definitely in his Mind Palace. As usual, since I wanted him to, he didn't share any of the conclusions he made observing our new band member.

I didn't like how things were progressing with my life, and I told Sherlock that when we got back to his place.

"I got no home--I got no car. I have a hell of a headache. And I think my finger's still infected. I'm on my third antibiotic, and it's still not working. It hurts like a bitch when I play."

"Better call the doctor tomorrow and have him call in a different antibiotic," Sherlock said.

"You know what I think? I think that rose carried some kind of heavy virus like e-bola, and I'm dying from it right now."

"That's not funny," Sherlock said.   


"I'm not being funny; I'm serious."

Sherlock was quiet for a bit, back inside that Mind Palace. He sat silent for over an hour, then he came back just as sudden as he’d left.

"You need to share with me what you've deduced about the card. In layman's terms."

“John, that card. It wasn’t in there the other night when I gave you the guitar. That means either someone came into this apartment and put the card in the case, or it happened at practice today. I haven’t seen any evidence of anyone coming in here, so that leaves your friends at band practice. I don’t think it was any of your friends.”

“It was that Sean Lestrade,” I said.

“Of course.” 

"It has a bloody thumbprint on it. It is yours. That means you obviously held the card again after the accident. What would prompt you to look at it again and in your condition? I believe the message within is rather irrelevant, although I suppose we should find out."

"Why is it irrelevant? Seems to me that the card's contents was why I'd pick it up and try to read it again."

"John, you see but you do not observe. There was no blood on the card. You never opened it. I am not surprised since your moral compass would forbid you to invade someone's privacy even in a state of shock."

I scratched my head.

"You didn't open it, John. You didn't recall what it said, because you never saw it. You did, however, feel the need to try to see inside it again. Why?"

"You're the genius, you tell me."

Sherlock laughed, one of his earnest deep-from-the-bottom-of-his-heart laughs.

"You, John Watson, are the most unpredictable enigma I have ever encountered. That is why I..." He stopped suddenly, mouth open. Then shut it. 

We dropped the topic and reheated the leftovers from last night. Afterwards, Sherlock got out the Scrabble board--even though he wanted to play Clue. 

I've played Scrabble with Sherlock many times before. He cheats. Last time he got the triple word score on some “confrabricated” word, claiming his cell phone had died and he couldn’t look it up to check it. 

After we got to playing, I suspected Sherlock was letting me win. I didn't say anything. 

He put away the Scrabble board, and I helped him pull out the sofa bed. He didn't try anything funny. Damn it.

Before I went into the bedroom, I kissed him on those perfect lips good night, and I took my time. He didn't seem to mind at all, but I made sure I kept my mouth closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update won't be until Sunday (and it's a juicy one). Now that school is back, I'll be updating at least every Sunday. Some weeks on midweek also depending on how crazy life is!


	6. Lucky Charms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting to find out what John's supernatural powers might be? Wait no more. This chapter reveals one.

I jumped up. I was late for work--8:32 with a dot.

First day back to work and draggin' ass. Coffee bit my nostrils, and a heat wave prediction from Chet Sands, Channel Three's ace weatherman, bombarded my ear drums. Sherlock was up (or never went to sleep) and hadn’t even attempted to wake me.

"Shit, I'm late," I said, stumbling out of the bedroom shoving my right leg in my jeans. I head butted Sherlock’s stomach and rocked back on my heals, falling smack against the wall.

"Careful!" he said. "You sure you're up to going back?"

"I'm fine. I have to," I said, ticking off each reason on my fingers. "I have $23.54 in my checking, twelve cents in savings. I have to file the insurance today on my car and find out what I can get on contents for the house on my lunch." I caught my breath and shoved my other leg into my jeans. "It'll be a while before the insurance pays off-- _if_ they do and _if_ I don't end up in jail for arson." Amazing. Halfway articulate--and with no caffeine just the enticing aroma.

“I can pick you up.”

"No, I plan to walk down to Johnson's insurance at lunch--" I added,  "although I'm sure they'll cancel my policy after this."

"Listen even if you don’t want a ride, you need money. Here," Sherlock said, reaching for his billfold and pulling out a couple of twenties along with his debut card.

I shook my head, ducking into the bathroom.

"I wasn't asking for money," I said, calling out as I shut the door.

"I know you weren't, but you need to eat," he said, pressing his mouth against the door talking over me while I piss. "You tell _me_ that enough. Do me a favor, eat before you go in. You're already late. It’s not like Mrs. Hudson doesn’t know you slept in. She understands. The lady worships you."

"I need coffee," I said, flushing the toilet. "But you know I'm not a breakfast cereal person."

In the vanity mirror, I seemed normal. My black eyes had entirely vanished; I looked rough but not bad. I washed my hands then brushed my teeth with the extra Scooby-Do toothbrush Sherlock gave me that he probably bought because it was the first one he saw on the shelf. Stepping out of the bathroom stretching, my traitorous stomach growled “feed me,” reverberating into the kitchen.

Funny, I thought as I stared down at my bare feet, I could have sworn my toenail came off when I stubbed it the other day. I must have been mistaken.

"You need more than coffee," Sherlock said, rummaging through assorted cereal boxes in the cupboard. He pulled them out, jostling each one next to his ear like a kid rattling his piggy bank. Then he’d checked the dates and frowned before lining them up on the counter like dominoes. "Maybe I should throw some of these out. Not enough for a bowl full in most of them. You like Cap'n Crunch?"

Of course all he had in his cupboard was sugar-laden cereal with ships and pirates. "That's good," I said. I _was_ hungry.

I searched the inside of the fridge, blurry eyed. I slid the milk from the shelf over to the counter while Sherlock dug out a spoon and bowl from the dishwasher. Plopping down at the kitchen table, I smelled the milk and checked the expiration date before I poured a heaping bowl full of Cap'n Crunch. Expired yesterday and smelled a bit off, but I was ravenous; I'd eat cereal dry if necessary. My stomach yowled again, welcoming the first bite that according to the box"stays crunchy even in milk."

"Sounds angry. I think it wants its usual eggs and bacon," he said, plunging his hand deep into a box of Lucky Charms. "Mmm, green clovers!"

"What, no toy surprise inside?" I laughed--er, giggled. "This cereal's fine. Eggs and bacon another day," I said.

"Yes, I like a solid breakfast after a good story and I do love your frying skills. That last time you made me breakfast was after that article about the restaurant owner who butchered his wife and served her to his customers as that week's special. You remember?"

"I try hard not to remember that one." I said, then I whisper, half to myself, "bacon and eggs." Mmm. One of all the memory meals that I loved most. Even my last image of Kenny the Kitchen Cannibal grinding up his spouse into spicy sausage didn't detract from fried bacon. "That does sound good--and something I could make later. What if we go shopping after I get out of work, and I'll make breakfast for dinner tonight?"

"Does sounds good," he said, throwing back bland oat cereal into the box and casting in again with his hand for sugary marshmallow goodness. I munched and drank my coffee while Sherlock called my insurance agent for me. Who was he talking in that elevated diction of his? My friggin' secretary?

He called the flower shop next. It was Mrs. Hudson on the other end. Had to be. If he was talking to Anderson, he’d be all tight and constipated instead of his his arms waving manically around his head between sorting out marshmallow charms and popping them into his mouth.

That's when he turned his back to me, and I noticed his shoulder muscles twitch rhythmically.  Little ticking spasms. His navy Union Jack t-shirt stretched taut across his shoulder blades, betraying movement underneath. I held my breath. No, that didn't make me want him at all--

He hung up.

"Everything's set," he said with and that quick smile he slipped me, nope, that didn’t set off heat in my belly. Nope.

"Take your time finishing breakfast,"  he added.

I choked back, "Thanks."

\------------------------

We pulled up in front of the greenhouse at the same time as Anderson. He waved as Sherlock stretched over the seat. I _could_ have walked. Mrs. Hudson always does--says it gives her a spark in her step. In fact, I used to from home too, and now at Sherlock's, it’s only a few blocks. Still, Sherlock insisted taking me.

"I'll pick you up at five. If you decide to knock off early today, just call. I'll be in and out all day." 

In and Out? Shit. My hand pulled on the car door handle and missed.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

He hesitated, leaning further over the console. For a moment there, I thought, yeah, he was gonna kiss me in broad fucking daylight in front of work, Anderson, and the world. Instead, his big hand brushed my chin, his nose twitched a tad, and he smiled, "Bye."

I stumbled out of his car and crossed the street with the memory of In and Out and his long, lingering fingers and how only days ago I was thinking of 101 reasons why I shouldn't be gay or bisexual or whatever it was I thought I wasn’t, and now I'm thinking of 103 reasons why I should be. Anderson stood in the front room, watching our parting scene through the showroom window. I limped up the stairs, avoiding his stare. He closed one eye, summing up my perplexed, nervous gate.

"Well, I have to admit…I was wrong about you." I gave him a puzzled look. "Guess I’m out 20 bucks. I told Mary that she should tell Sherlock not to waste his time, pining away for you. She kept telling me you'd come around. I admit; I was wrong. So, um, I guess I can't refer to you as the 24-year-old vestal virgin anymore?"

"That's the most _bass ackward_ compliment I ever heard."

I could not  bring myself to side with his semi-civil countenance--not even for Mary--when I knew inside Anderson was still a slithering, womanizing snake. I wanted to indulge in a few choice words, but I glimpsed Mrs. Hudson standing in the backroom taking in our conversation.

Peachy.

"Now, you look more like yourself. You were a sight at the hospital," Mrs. Hudson spoke up. "I wanted to stop by yesterday and give you boys a few pieces of chocolate cake I baked. It's moist and creamy like Sherlock loves, but I didn’t bring it up. I didn't want to interrupt.”

"Thanks for visiting me in in the hospital," I said, ignoring the part about interrupting. And I sure didn’t want to explain my memory lapse. It was too long a story to tell Mrs. H this morning. Besides she’d be sending up chicken soup or beef stew along with baked bread _and_ the chocolate cake. I frankly didn’t know where she got the time to bake.

"I'm happy you've finally come to your senses," she said and gave me a warm, suffocating hug. "Sorry about everything--the fire, your house. Here's some extra cash," she whispered, slipping it into my smock. "What ever you need--just ask. You're both of you boys are like sons to me, you know. Sherlock told me you were still a bit under the weather. Go ahead and punch out early today--I won't look at your time card." She winked at me.

"I'll see how the day goes," I said, pulling up the orders.

"And the night.” She winked again. ”Sherlock comes from a great family, and I'm glad to see something good come out of all the bad that's come your way. You've had too much happen over the last few years." I looked down quickly at my feet as I bit my lip. "Well, I've got to get to the scene of your accident--check on those sick roses on River Road.  I'll be back as soon as I'm through."

"You talked to Mrs. Lestrade then?" I said, looking over at Anderson.

"Yes, she sends her best to you, by the way--says her grandson knows you."

"Well, yeah, he's in our band now," I told her.

Anderson laughed and walked down the back steps to the greenhouse. _Ass hole_. Mrs. H waved, and I turned around. I wasn’t comfortable with her going out there by herself. The door chimed twice.

“Mrs. Hudson! Wait! You should take Anderson with you! I think there might be some heavy lifting involved,” I lied.

A customer entered. A day in the life at the flower shop.

Anderson wasn’t happy, but who gives a shit?

Easy customer. Took a pre-made bud vase, paid and left.

I prepared myself for the design room.

The last time I was off for a week, it took three days to reorganize the place again. Upside of being gone this last week was I missed the Yancey wedding on Saturday. I hated working weddings. Especially, the snooty-my-shit-don't-stink weddings. Weddings _are_ often a pain in the _ass_ . When the brides to be come in to place their orders, I always wonder, _how long before the divorce?_ I'd started a pool once, set odds; Anderson even got in on the action. But Mrs. H made us to stop.

Not very professional placing bets on newlywed longevity.

I shook my head. Stems in descending degrees of decay, from petrified to mush, covered the counters. Over five rolls of floral tape half unwound, were puckering from water saturation. No one bothered to put the right size of floral wire in the right slots. When will they learn never to stick number three wire into the nine hole? And the ribbon? a bolt of yellow pot tie muddied and trampled on the floor and another bolt of white picot ribbon half unraveled on a workbench sopping wet in water. Trying to put the mess away, I slipped on crumbled Oasis near the bathroom door, catching my balance and squishing my hand in a jelly doughnut.

I spent the rest of the morning picking up, filling orders and waiting on customers.

I asked Mrs. Hudson about the Lestrade's when she got back. She didn't have much to say--at first. Anderson just sulked and went out to the side greenhouse. She raved on and on about the garden. Thinking back, it was spectacular. She said Mrs. Lestrade wasn't home, but the infamous siren, Glenda was. She also met, Sean, our new band member. What ever was wrong with the roses before, wasn't anymore; they were perfectly healthy. Then, I remembered the leaves I took. Well, they were _Gone with the Car_. I didn't understand how plants in that wasted a condition could recover so quickly.

"She's more interested in the missing card," she said. "She wondered if you would give it back." Considering her grandson had witnessed its reappearance, I had to. I told Mrs. H I'd bring it in tomorrow.

"That's fine," she said. "They're a nice family. Very caring. Nice of them to come visit you in the hospital." Crap. My hospital room must have had revolving doors. "An interesting young man, that Sean. Reminds me a lot of you. He asked how you were today--said was he was the one who found you alongside the road and called the ambulance. He's very concerned about you."

Why would this Sean lie about calling the ambulance? Old MacDonald called 911 not him.

"And Mr. Lestrade said he was sorry to hear about your house."

 _I bet he is_ , I thought.

I looked at the clock. Almost lunch time--I wasn't in any hurry to visit Johnson's Insurance Agency, so I left a few minutes late.

\---------------------------------

The insurance company was in a renovated Victorian home. The ginger breading both inside and out advertised a quaint small town atmosphere--a distinction many of the homes converted to businesses promoted in town. I stepped into the waiting room where it looked like a time machine belched--the Art Deco furniture out of place.

Ellen, Mr. Johnson's ample partner _and_ my mom's best friend, stood waiting for me, and we walked back to her office together. 

"I'd been worried about you," she said, giving me a quick hug. "How are you doing, I mean, _really_ doing?"

I could never lie to her--I still call her my “other mother,” an endearing name my mom christened her with long ago.

"I've been worse," I said, smiling best I could. I followed her to her office. "Guess you'll need my policy number...its…”

“Oh, Sherlock phoned with it already. Such a thoughtful young man. He gave that to me along with the policy number on your renter’s for contents on the house," she said, sitting down behind her desk.

"Well, yes that's the other reason why I came down here." I took a seat in a wing-back chair facing her desk.

"Yes, honey. You forget--I know all, see all. Small town. Um, and the adjuster's already been out to your home."

"What about my car?"

"A total, payoff will be blue book value."  She looked at her PC, then at me over the rim of her glasses.

"How long?"

"It depends. On the car, not too long. I'll need a formal a change of address done--paper work, you know. Sherlock said to fax it to him. Now, as for your renter's, we were looking over your policy, and you did have contents for replacement value and a thorough list of items in your home. However, the cause of the fire may hold up matters." She shifted in her seat and leaned her elbow on the desk. "I'm sorry, John. I'll do my best to help speed this all as much as I can."

"It’s because it's arson,” I stated. Well, that was no surprise.

"Yes. Frankly speaking, I know you had nothin' to do with it, honey, but I'm not the one that issues the check."

I nodded.

"I'll pick up the check here. Call me at the flower shop or on my cell when it comes in." We both stood up at the same time, and Ellen gave my hand a squeeze. She sniffed. Hell, she was actually crying. I always hated it when she cried. Made me sad right along with her.

"This is too much a reminder of the fire before,” she said, waterworks now on full. “I've felt sick to my stomach since this all happened. Brings back the pain of losing your family in that horrible fire."  Shit, now she had me sniffling.

We talked. Really talked. Sherlock was right. It was good to talk to someone.

\------------------------

I was already pretty late getting back from lunch, but I walked back from the insurance agency like the living dead. My head throbbed from crying and from trying _not_ to cry. If talking to Ellen about my family's death was so healthy, why did I feel like shit? The first six months or so I tried pretending it never happened--like I could call them up, and they'd be there, and say, "Hello, Mom?" But I couldn't keep that up for long. Then, I tried to keep myself busy with work and the band and not think of what happened. With all that’s happened in the last weeks, I can't do that anymore. Ellen made it impossible for me to ignore. So did Sherlock.

I stuck it out the whole day at work feeling like forgetting but unable to forbear reflecting. Uneventful, except for a pop-in visit from Mary with more clothes just before closing. She said it gave her an excuse to come down and visit “Phil.” She left me to a customer and ducked outside to see Anderson off.

I was surprised to Sherlock and Anderson talking civilly to each other when I came out the door, which struck me as all very weird. It’s been happening a lot, but then a lot of odd shit has been happening lately, Anderson and Sherlock sharing pleasantries seems minor in comparison. Sherlock slid over and opened the door for me.

We rode off with Mary yelling, "Don't tire John out too much!"

I felt a bit of satisfaction when Sherlock blushed.

On the way home, I shared with him Mrs. H's experiences with the Lestrade clan. He told me what Anderson had to say. I should have known he was feigning politeness for information.

"This is all linked together. I just need to find the connection," he said as he parked the car.

"Yeah, but how?"

"Not sure. I researched today. Interesting background on Emma Lestrade," he said. "I hope you don't mind, but I picked up a temporary change of address card for you at the post office. You can fill it out, and I'll take it back for you tomorrow while you're at work." We pulled into the driveway and walked up the stairs.

Change of address? He opened the door for me.

"And Smith left a long, boring message on my cell today. Frankly, I couldn’t listen to the entire thing. It was too painful. Then, he irritated me a second time when he stopped by and dropped _this_ off at our apartment for you," he said, shutting the door.

Our apartment? Sherlock handed me “this” from his pocket, an envelope with my name scrawled on the front. He stood at the kitchen counter and sighed in resignation as he tapped his cell until he got to Smith's hesitant and comical and “boring” voice message:

_Yeah, John? I hate these fucking...You're not home, damn. Any how, why I called... Umm...the guys took up a collection. We figured there's  stuff--yeah, some stuff you might need--you know. I'll drop it by and put it in the mail box if no one's home. And wait, one other thing. We got a gig at the Adam's Den for Friday and Saturday night. We should get together and practice again if you're feeling like it. And the guys said, no pressure. Call one of us. If you can't play both nights, that's okay. We'll see ya there. Oh and hey, Sherlock--take care of him. Oh yeah and Bill says, “Don't forget to buy leather slacks.”_

"Leather?" Sherlock wondered aloud and scratched his nose with a blush. "Well, wish I would have listened to all of it now."

I took a chance and leaned into him, grazing his mouth with my lips and watching his eyes. He didn't pull back. This time I opened my mouth--cinnamon danish, coffee, cigarettes, and the world trickling through rapid beats of my heart. His tongue lightly brushed mine, then he stepped back afterward and took a deep breath. That wasn't the reaction I was hoping for.

"What happened today?" he asked, a bit more flushed than before. Shit, he deduced me too well. I sat down heavily at the kitchen table with him envelope still in my hand.

"They'll pay off on my car, but it looks like there'll be a holdup contents because of the arson investigation."

"You know that's not what I meant." He sat down in the chair next to mine. "I saw it the moment I picked you up. Eyes puffy, nose red. So, you talked to Ellen, didn't you?" I nodded, starting to open the envelope with my thumb. "Good. Good. You needed to talk to someone."

I heard the disappointment in his voice. That shouldn’t have made me angry, but it did.

"Even if it's not you?” I bit back.

"Well, yes," he said, contritely. "You are avoiding. Me.”

“It didn’t feel like that a moment ago.”

“Please, don’t be dense. Talk to me. I want you to talk to _me_!" I knew he was right. He should be the one I talk to. “Damn it, John! Talk to me!”

I sat there, envelope half opened, staring straight ahead at his fucking wallpaper, a flocked trellis pattern on a shimmery metallic background.

He huffed out a sigh, then reached into his pocket and handed me his keys. "Take my car and go to the mall or store or where ever you'd like. Buy some bacon and eggs," he said. "Buy the leather pants. Use the money from the band." He slapped the envelope for emphasis.

I stared down at the keys in my open palm, then down at the floor. I couldn’t meet his eyes. "I don't want to drive," I admitted.

“At least I can do _that_ for you,” he said with a hint of bitterness as he took the keys from me.

\-------------------------------

I walked the downtown mall, thinking about what Sherlock said. We split up and decided to meet up at his car. He said he needed to be alone and think. I know he really wanted me to do the thinking. I stopped in Walgreens and bought a razor, shaving gel, and shampoo. Went into four different stores looking for leather slacks, bought shirts instead along with real underwear--boxers. The fifth place I walked into to had leather. A lot of leather. And other. Things. I bought them there.

I did think. By the time I started for the back parking garage to Sherlock's car, I had a mental list of all I'd say to him. What I needed to say, not just for Sherlock but for myself. I also realized that I never bought bacon and eggs.

Sherlock left the door unlocked. I opened the passenger side and stooped inside, throwing my bags up, over the bucket seat and into the back when I heard someone walk up behind me. I turned to see. He was much taller than me, dark hair and eyes, squinting--flecks of the setting sun reflecting in them casting a reddish glow. And he stepped in close to me.

"Excuse me,” he said, his voice flat, “do you know the shortest way to get to Washington Avenue from here?" I straightened up to answer. Then I saw the glint. After years of tight situations in back alleys chasing scofflaws with Sherlock, I knew what it was. 

Like a dream, I stood locked in place, feet like lead. I was trapped between the car and my attacker. He stabbed into my shoulder as I opened my mouth to speak. Numb at first, I couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. And even as I realized, I didn't comprehend since he didn’t act like he was attacking me. No malice, no emotion on his face. I shuddered, numb. He twisted it. I felt that. I yelled and one of my hands went for the hand twisting the blade. That fucking hurt. With my other arm, I managed to slam my elbow into his throat with zero reaction. He pulled out the knife, and I pushed against him to get away. My heart raced, thinking I was almost free. My hand tightened around his wrist, and I slammed it with everything in me against the car door to get him to drop the knife. It was like fighting an automaton. No pain. No response. He just coming back. I twisted my body, and his wrist with it, I knew that _had_ to hurt him when I felt a pop. Hoping he’d drop the knife, I gave him a solid kick in the shin. Instead, this incredible surge of power flowed from him, and he forced the blade into my stomach. My hand still gripped on his wrist, now dripped with my blood. I think I yelled then, I know I yelled when he ripped the blade down.

Everything slowed. I saw the freckles on his face. I smelled iron and bile. Burning pain. Uncontrollable tremors. He stepped back. I grabbed the knife and pulled it free, and it dropped to the pavement. It clattered and echoed.

My legs gave, and I clutched the front of his shirt as I slid down.

I fell slowly backward on to the stark-white bucket seat. Strength leaving. Hand still bunched in his shirt.

Blood, my blood warming my old t-shirt and wet on my skin. I watched it drip down the floorboard. He knew exactly what he was doing. He’d hit the brachial artery in my shoulder and ravaged irreparable damage to my intestines. The initial pain I didn't feel roared through my every cell and ratcheted--a tempest of pain twisting again and again. All the while his face was impassive, dispassionate.

I choked back a sob, "Why?"

I saw his face, beard stubble and smile lines, and then finally, a touch of an emotion. A possible flash of pity--his face so close to mine, I couldn’t be quite sure. Eye to eye, I swear he was trying to see inside my mind. Asking. What, I don’t know.   _If I knew the answer, I would say._

Then, his own bloodied hand cradled the back of my head and gently rearranged me on the passenger’s seat, then rested the back of my head against the edge of driver’s. I thought, _this is what it's like to die_. I shivered. Even the cold and pain seemed to slip away. I was so fucking afraid.

Alone. He left me there alone, to look at the crack in the wind-shield and the red of the setting sun. I wondered why. I wondered how long, how much time.

In the distance, I heard footsteps and thought he'd returned. The driver's door opened, and I heard keys drop on pavement. Sherlock. I heard him frantic--calling 911 and swearing as he lost the signal. His face came close, and his hands lifted my shirt as he crawled on to the front seat. We both saw the wound in my belly together--gaping and ugly. My shoulder bled, still bled. How could there be any more left in me? So much was on me, on the seat, on the floorboards. I felt his tears wet and hot against my cheek. I whispered to him not to cry.

He left me. Then he was on the other side of me, lifting my legs into the car. He shut the door. He climbed back into the driver's side, shifting into the front seat gently lifting my head and putting it into his lap. And he fumbled with the keys. My hand stopped him. No time. I heard him say, “Don’t die, don’t die. Don’t you dare die!” and the car moved. 

Sherlock never stopped talking. Telling, pleading, confessing, then asking, “Who did this?”

I shook my head. I couldn't speak.

“Don't die. Hold on. Don't die. John, John. Stay with me. I haven't told you. I haven’t told you I love you yet.”

I felt a tear trickle into my ear. Mine. I didn't know I had anything left inside me to bleed.

As the car moved, space changed. Transformed to an altered state. Euphoric. I was invincible! My vision exploded. Bright red and yellow sparks. Swirls of hot white lights between dead spots. Forever...I needed forever. I reached for Sherlock, and Sherlock grasped his hand in mine, clenching it tight. My heart clenched with it, just as tight.

This wasn't the end. I knew. I saw it. I saw it all. It was all so clear.

Sherlock swung into the entrance of the emergency room. He began to jump out of the car, but I pulled him back. Surprised, he stared down at me. I wouldn't let him get out. I took his hand and guided it up to my shoulder where my body was torn. Our fingers learned together what my body already knew as I trailed his hand in mine down to my belly. He disbelieved. At first. He frowned. He lifted my shirt.

Nothing.

Then he started to cry again. The wounds were gone. Wiping blood away, we saw the angry red scars. Sherlock’s stunned, disbelieving eyes accepted and praised the sky above through gasps and sobs, his own tears mixed with my blood. I pulled myself upright in the seat.

Sherlock sat for a moment. Unsure. A clearly unsure Sherlock, I rarely ever saw. Then he nodded, his eyes were on mine. Before he put the car in drive and sped off, he mashed our lips together and said, "Let's go home."


	7. The Universe is a Computer

I still felt cold. Cold and dry. My nerves brittle--I felt like I'd snap at any moment, standing on Sherlock's stairs or “our stairs” as he called them. We started up them as fast as possible. We didn't want to frighten Mrs. H with my gory zombie look. I never believed in miracles. But what was this? I reached my hand inside my blood-soaked shirt, still disbelieving. I was there, and I was alive not the walking dead. 

We staggered up the stairs. Like all the times before, I supported Sherlock more than he supported me. He was truly confounded from all he’d seen. It flew in the face of all rational thought, and Sherlock hugged logic and deduction to him like a blanket. Even with all the biology classes I’ve taken, I was more prepared to accept the insanity of it all than Sherlock. 

This was also a turn about in other respects. I was the one injured. After all the close calls Sherlock had over the years, I’d managed to go relatively unscathed. I couldn’t count the times I’d helped him up these very stairs, looking much like I did now. Over the years, he'd been shot once and stabbed twice (not that seriously though--once was a slash to the arm and the other was his thigh, and both I stitched up myself). I'd also mended innumerable sprains and spent many an evening in the ER broken ribs and arms.

Ironic that I’m not going to the hospital after all the times I forced him to go over the years.  


Sherlock brow furrowed, the concern on his face transparent, as he turned the key to the front door and kicked it open with his foot. 

“I feel fine, and besides,” I said, toeing off my shoes, “they’d ask too many questions that I can’t answer if we had gone into the hospital.”

“Not nearly as many as are racing through my head.” 

I nodded. I couldn’t answer this or any other of the incalculable questions. How could I explain this impossibility? Nothing that I’ve learned in my organic or general chemistry, anatomy or any biology class ever alluded to healing this rapid--that would take cell regeneration on at a rate unknown to man. Yes, some reptiles regenerate eyes, legs, and other body parts, but not at the speed I’d healed. It made me wonder if I was even human.

Instead the logical ramifications, it was how it happened that played in an endless loop in my head. God, I remembered every fucking detail. No shock, no memory lapse this time around. Every aspect glinted and blinded. And like the knife that sliced and ripped at my flesh, it sliced and ripped at my memory. I wanted to know why he did it. 

And Sherlock's words.  _ I haven't said I love you yet _ . What did he mean by  _ yet _ , and how might I answer back if he said those same words again?

Never so happy to see the inside of 221B and never so thirsty as this, I motioned for Sherlock to turn on the kitchen tap, and I grabbed the nearest glass and filled it to overflowing. I drained it, then refilled and gulped it down again. The glass filled a third time. I slowed and sipped it.

"I think I’m good for now," I said. “I don’t want to get sick." 

Sherlock took the glass from me. We hobbled the to couch where I flopped back with a sigh, and Sherlock sat down next to me, putting the water on the coffee table within arm's reach. I stripped the offending shirt up and over my head and set it on the coffee table next to my glass. After all the blood-borne pathogen training, you’d think I set my blood-soaked shirt anywhere but there, but I was too tired to give a fuck. And Sherlock had set much worse on that table like kidney stones and human eyes. 

Sherlock grabbed an old tattered quilt, and he cocooned inside it along with me. My teeth chattered, my body shivered, but that was all okay because Sherlock just wrapped tighter around me. He touched my bare belly and shoulder, leaning close and inspecting where the wounds had been.

“The tissue has completely regenerated. Not possible. It’s obviously a molecular process of genetic regulation that is fundamentally regulated by some sort of asexual cellular means.” Sherlock glowed as he spoke. 

“I don’t feel asexual,” I said. Sherlock smirked, noting the huge bulge in my jeans.

“ _ Unbreakable _ ," he whispered softly against my neck. 

"What?" 

He was studying me like I was someone he'd never seen before, checking each tiny scar, the creases in my knuckles as I clenched the quilt as if it was some kind of life preserver while other parts of my body loved the attention.

"The movie  _ Unbreakable _ . One of those  _ i diotic  _ _movies_ that you forced me watch with you. The film, as you recall, had that everyday Superman in it. No one could heal like that unless that person was superhuman. You, John Watson, are an amazing anomaly, a magnificent phenomenon. Superior to any caped or un-caped crusader."  


"I don't think I’m Superman. If I were, I would have squashed that fucker with my superhuman strength before he stabbed me," I said. 

"Oh, John. You are. You are. What I've learned from watching all those insufferable films it that there's more to being a superhero than superior strength. And each one of them have an origin story, and yours all began here.” Sherlock touched his index finger to mine.  


"My finger? What? The thorn!" 

"Yes," he said. "You’re not the only one who's undergone miraculous healing." As if recalling, my once blighted finger tingled a bit at his words. 

"The roses. They were sick, now they're well. In a few weeks' time," I said. “But I have more than that to worry about. It’s who attacked me.”

"Possible arch villain. Description. Tell me how it happened. Leave nothing out. As usual, no bit of information is insignificant.”

“Male. Tall. Taller than you. Dark brown hair,  brown eyes, some freckles. Late thirties to early forties. Clean shaven. Nice clothes. Dressed in a tailored suit. Never seen him before, but then there was something familiar about him." I’ve done this so many times--related descriptions to Sherlock. I liked it. It was comforting, like falling into an old habit. “And when he did stabbed me, it was like it was mechanical. Emotionless.”

“I believe it’s probable that you’ve seen him before but briefly.”

Sherlock was correct. I had a odd feeling that I'd seen him before, but... 

"I'm not sure," I said, pulling the quilt tighter around us. Maybe if we squeezed in tighter enough together, I'd forget everything else, feel warmer, feel. I recalled the promise I made to myself walking back to car, that I'd open up to Sherlock. It was hard being open when you've been closed for so long. 

Sherlock was my best friend. And maybe, just maybe a whole lot more.

"His face," I started, maintaining composure. "After he did it, he almost seemed sorry in the end...but before, his actions were detached like a surgeon cutting into me. I don’t understand what his motive was. He didn't take a thing. Didn't even try. Just asked directions, then stabbed me. And of all things, he helped me back into the seat." 

Sherlock. Listening. God, he's beautiful the way his eyes glittered and mouth puckered in concentration. 

"He held my head. He wasn't crazy. He was almost... fucking polite.

Sherlock frowned. While his faced was beautiful before, he remained as attractive when agitated. I relaxed my head into the curve of Sherlock’s neck, his aftershave smelled familiar and safe as I told him the rest of how it happened from start to finish. 

"It was like he knew. He  _ knew I wasn't going to die _ ." 

"Or he wasn't sure. A test.”

“If that’s the case, it’s odd that he didn’t wait around to see the result. Must be he was worried you’d come back or someone else would see.”

"Maybe he did," Sherlock said. "He watched. Probably from a car near by. There were a few parked near with tinted windows." 

For the first time, I saw real anger in Sherlock's face like a storm with the heady wind behind. We both sat quiet for a few moments, collecting our thoughts. 

"Sherlock?" 

He cradled my head with his open hand resting on the base of my neck. I felt his warm wrist and pulse quickening. I silently counted each beat off. It was time to talk about what I’ve denied. 

"The fire that killed my family, it wasn’t an accident." 

Sherlock was quiet. I let myself get angry. Furious. 

"It wasn’t the furnace. My house. The bar. Your apartment. And now--" I steadied my voice, "this attack ... you’re right. No coincidences. Today... Hell, for the last week, I've thought a lot about Mom, Dad and Harry dying. Nothing will ever fill that pit inside where they used to be. Not talking about them in the present tense. I know I do it all the time--like I can call them for advice. I even think about them like they’re still here. Fuck. Just the other day, I thought about my dad like he’s around to argue with. And the day of my car accident, I said my mother'ed love to see Lestrade's god damned garden. I suspended belief long enough to think she could walk right down the fucking path with me." I took a deep breath, then continued. 

"Why the fuck weren’t the smoke detectors working?” My voice rose. “What happened to those batteries? My god, it’s just that if I think of my family as dead, I’m forced think about what it was like for them. In that fire. I never even saw their bodies. I couldn't. What kind of doctor will I make if I can't look at burned bodies? And the fucking guilt. It's suffocating. That I...I could, have prevented it. You know, I should have been there... not with the Mary on some stupid, fucking, pointless date. Maybe I would have realized or heard or done something. Now, I find that _ I’m _ the reason for it all." My voice cracked, and I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, the rage inside so great I thought it’d bust out of my chest.

"John, you can’t blame yourself. You aren’t to blame. If you would have been in the house, you would be dead now too, and I thank god that’s not the case," he said. "Even if what happened to them has to do with what happened to you today, you are still not to blame. The ones who did it are to blame. No one else."

"I know that. My brain knows that. But that's not how it washes out inside  _ me _ . Fuck. Look at me. What am I, Sherlock? God. Some fucking freak.”

“No, you forget. I am the freak.” Sherlock laughed. Toby jumped up next to us.  


“Well mover over. Since this happened, I’ve had visions of getting dissected alive to see how fast I'd heal up again--like some  _ X-Files _ episode." 

"Hmm..." Sherlock joked, "I did always wonder if you were an alien life form. You’ve always been so interesting and far removed from all other people. I’ve always thought you are the most unique and remarkable person in the world. Now it's confirmed." 

He always been fascinated with the peculiar, and just when I’d begun to worry that he no longer thought I was desirable, he says this and reassures me.

"Well, thanks, I think. I still bleed and feel pain. And I eat and drink. Damn," I said, remembering. "I was going to make bacon and eggs tonight, too."

"We can pass on you making dinner. You  _ should  _ eat. I think chicken soup is on the menu, don’t you?"

He was right. The aroma of homemade soup and baked bread welcomed us from downstairs. All the water I just drank didn’t replace all I’d lost, but a big bowl of Mrs. H’s hot soup was the cure. Yes, that and her chocolate cake. Although sitting close and warm with Sherlock, my body ached for something else entirely.

"I'm hungry but not quite yet," I said. "Don't get up." 

I wanted to kiss him. And Sherlock was right. I  _ am _ an alien--alien to myself. These tingles and pressures and touches didn't feel like they belonged to me. I felt Sherlock’s pulse earlier through his wrist resting on my neck. As I brought my lips closer and closer still, he exhaled and every molecule of his breath became dancing sparks. I could see the perfect pores and freckles on his face that I'd never noticed until now. It seemed to take hours for my mouth to meet his lips, but when it did, he moaned so loud his deep timbre echoed inside my head. His racing pulse leapt into my fingertips. He sounded needy and wanton. But he didn’t try to pull away this time. Instead he opened up to me, and I sucked his breath inside me. Like bursts of heat lightning from far away storms, his life exploded. My tongue explored and sparked an electrostatic arc that moved from myself to Sherlock. He was physically jolted, startled by it. Both of us illuminated. And behind our eyes with sluggish, dream-like movement, our moans and sexual tension merged. I captured him. He’d captured me. One inside the other. For keeps. And I knew, yes, this was what it felt like to kiss and be kissed by the one you love. 

A knock at the door jarred up apart, and Mrs. H popped through. She served us hot chicken soup, warm butter baked bread and creamy chocolate cake, then said goodnight to us both. 

The day was all a bit much for Sherlock. And for me. With some regret, Toby slept with me and Sherlock on the couch.

\-----------------------

For the first time since coming to 221B, I got up and ready the next morning before Sherlock. I made the coffee and fed Toby, scratching him behind his ears, then took him outside to do his morning doggy duty.

We came back from our brisk walk, and I drank my coffee. Toby licked my hand, and I licked my lips, thinking that I probably won’t be needing chapstick anymore since I regenerated faster than a flatworm. I smiled remembering how my mom used to harp on me about licking them all the time and wished she could say that to me again. Or that I could call Dad and hear him insult me. Or yell at Harry for using all the hot water. At least now I was just wishing and not pretending. 

Sherlock slept on the sofa bed, and my heart turned into one giant knot as his eyes fluttered. We really needed to clean out that extra room so he could have his room back. What was I doing? Moving in? I know that’s what Sherlock wanted. Most likely into his room. Maybe Mary's right about me. Sherlock  _ should  _ expect more than what I had been giving. Not that I ever promised him anything but wasn't my staying here a promise? I couldn’t deny the depth of my feelings for him. 

Turning the change of address card over in my hand, I rummaged through the desk for a pen. Either a weak or smart decision, not sure which. But I couldn't leave. Those kisses last night changed me. The card filled out, I sat it on the counter for Sherlock to see. 

"Good morning." Sherlock rolled around facing me. Yeah, he knew. "Ready for work? What time is it?"

"About quarter to seven. I couldn't sleep." 

My brain buzzed after he kissed me horny last night. A rumpled and sleepy Sherlock was a hot Sherlock. _Jump on the couch. Jump on him. Jump._

_Hesitation. Must go to work._

My life needed normalcy--self-healing freak-shows need nine to five for order. 

"You can use my laptop to read the news." I could take a hint. “Or steal Mrs. Hudson’s paper off the steps. That’s what I usually do.”

Not wanting to swipe her paper, the laptop became my choice, and he had all major and local papers bookmarked. I scanned the headlines and weather. Today was going to be hot. That meant staying on the front room floor at work where it was air conditioned. News? Oh, yeah, someone tried to kill me yesterday, but that didn't make the news. Nothing current with Sherlock’s by-line. Opinion? Letters to the editor, nothing interesting. Then a click over to the feature section to see a unwanted, familiar face. 

I ran to the bathroom and pounded on the door, shouting, "Sherlock! Sherlock!"

"Hold on a minute. I'll be right out!" He opened the door drying off. That wasn’t distracting at all. I pointed to his laptop screen. Other parts of me pointed elsewhere. He pushed the laptop back, getting it wet. 

It took me a moment to spit it out. Standing there naked, he was killing me. "Mr. Lestrade is a quantum physicist?" I choked out at last.

"No, it's Dr. Lestrade. He's a prof at Cambridge. And," he said, tapping his damp finger on the screen, "he's speaking tonight at seven. Here, at Calvin Auditorium."

He knew all this already. The fucker. I hate it when he keeps shit from me.

"Yes. And the topic, which by the way I read a few years back in _The Smithsonian_ , is ‘The Universe is a Computer.’” 

He leaned against the counter, towel dipping lower and lower off his waist, hip and round rear end half exposed. "Caffeine?" he asked hopefully with a smirk. The bastard loved both watching me ogle him and treating me like I was his fucking maid. As long as I could gaze at his wet curls, long, lean body, and tight little ass, I didn’t give a toss. I poured him a cup.

“I could get the tickets,” I said.

"I already have them for tonight," he said. “Or I should say, Mrs. Hudson has them.”

"Why am I not surprised?"

\----------------------

On the way to work, Sherlock outlined what Lestrade's lecture was about--as much as I could understand.

"He theorizes that the universe is a supercomputer that has been computing since the Big Bang. Thus the card written in binary--ones and zeros. Language of the computer. Lestrade coded the message. You still have the card?"

"Yeah, Glenda told Mrs. H they wanted it back, and I was supposed to bring it to work, but with all that's happened, I forgot."

"Good, you should find out it what means before you give it back although it doesn’t hold much significance. Did you get a chance to read that background I found on Emma Lestrade?" he asked.

"No," I said, too busy reflecting back to the way the fine hairs on Sherlock's belly glistened after his shower to think about important things like solving riddles attached to my accident. Besides, he already knew what the card said. As usual, the ass wouldn’t tell me-- _ he  _ felt  _ I needed _ to find out for myself. "Back to universe is a computer. You haven’t finished explaining."

He rolled his eyes at me. "All computers use a series of on and off switches. One is on and zero is off. The analogy of the computer is overused, but as a med student, you’d understand better equating it to the brain. Think of synapses going on and off. But this theory is more than an analogy; it's real. He states it is  _ literally _ a computer. Light, ON. Void, OFF. Do you understand?"

"I'm not the computer nerd here--" I said, "so I could give a fuck. What I'd like to know is, if the universe  _ is _ a computer, what is it computing?"

"Well, itself. Or reality." 

I rolled my eyes back it him. Here we go again. We were just pulling up to the greenhouse, and he was bringing up one of his  _ “what is the meaning of life?”  _ discussions, which normally I did like get into with him, but it was 7:56, and I had to punch in.

"I'll call you later," I said, getting out of the car. 

"Mrs. Hudson knew a few people at Albright College; she's giving the tickets to you."

"See you at five then." And he drove off. 

Not one word about last night.

\----------------------------------------

The phone rang on my first step in the door and didn't stop until two that afternoon. The news was right--it turned out to be a hot, humid Michigan day---96 degrees in the shade by two o'clock and with the heat index well into the 100s. Kim Donnelly, Mrs. H and I stayed cool on the floor while the greenhouse crew sweated it out in the back forty. Anderson ran deliveries so he went from what he calls  _ arid to arctic _ all day. I mentioned to Anderson and Mrs. H about Dr. Lestrade speaking tonight at the college, and thanked Mrs. H for the tickets.

Anderson said he wouldn't mind going himself and taking Mary.

"How many more do you want then? two? I think I can still get more tickets," Mrs. H asked. "I'll take them out of payroll on Friday." She winked at me. 

"Hey, that's not fair-- just because he's down in his luck doesn't mean he shouldn't have to pay! What about me? I'm a poor single guy!" He complained.

Sherlock called me first and his cell phone cut in and out, but I told him Mrs. Hudson gave me the tickets, but we might have company. For the first time, I didn't seem to mind that Anderson might come along. Contemplating an evening with Anderson and Mary wouldn't normally be relaxing. Neither should seeing a speaker that I think might be stalking me, especially after my near death experience last night. Having more people I knew around meeting Lestrade made it easier I suppose. I was more relaxed than I'd been in weeks.

I bit my lip and remembered. Kisses unbend anxiety. 

Mrs. H burst up the steps with the extra tickets, handing them to Anderson. She reminded me that I was supposed to bring in the card from Dr. Lestrade. I was hoping she'd forget. 

\---------------------------

Reliable Sherlock pulled up five minutes early. I told him I could walk, but after yesterday, he said we should be more careful.

Mrs. Hudson told me to “scat” and have a good time with “my” Sherlock tonight. I jogged out to the car.

"I did some more detective work today," Sherlock said, as I got in. "Take a look." He nodded toward a tattered folder sitting on the console.

I opened it and thumbed through the pages of faxed and yellowed old records. Then, I stopped to look at an old eight-by-ten group school photo. There were about twenty students in various grades with the teacher in the back row. A little girl dead center held up a small slate with “Freemont School 1869” in white chalk. 

How could this be? Yet, as I took in the picture again--it seemed like deja vu. Maybe because the building looked familiar in the background, and--something more. 

"There he is," Sherlock pointed to the teacher. 

The face was tiny, smaller than a dime. But there was no mistaking. 

"Fuck," I said. "He looks identical to Lestrade!"

"Yeah. And here's that information about Emma and her brother." He pulled it from the folder and handed it to me, and I silently read it over. 

"I can't believe this. He's real,” I said as I read quickly about a school master who disappeared, a man employed by Freemont school. He grew up in a town only about fifty miles from here. Sherlock always managed to get obscure information. He read the awe on my face.

"It really wasn't difficult to find--internet, city halls, college libraries, old police files, not much groveling and some intimidation, a bit of blackmail. All in a regular day's work. Tomorrow I will go to the intermediate school district for more records."

\----------------------

Back at the apartment, I showered and changed. The anticipation of continuing to pretend to be a couple for Mary and Anderson was intoxicating--like foreplay. I didn’t want to pretend. I heard Sherlock humming in the other room. Seemed he was just as excited.

"Mary called, she thought we could go somewhere to eat afterwards. Sit down and talk in a relaxed atmosphere," he told me through the door. 

"You better finish getting ready. They’ll will be here soon. I want to get there early and get a good seat."

"John? Before I continue, I have to tell you that I had a good reason for doing so...do not be angry with me--although you will..."  


I honestly was afraid of what he'd tell me. He opened his mouth to begin, then thought again. 

"Mrs. Hudson. I told her..."  


I froze as I opened the door. " _ What  _ did you tell her?"

"I told her about happened to you last night. She didn’t believe me at first."

"No shit? Big fucking surprise! No one's going to believe it. She probably only considered it because  _ you _ told her." Shit, at first I thought he’d told Mary we  _ weren't _ fucking. Or that he was fucking Mary. Or some other horrible scenario.  


"No big deal," I said. "I'm ready, just looking for my tennis shoes… but you need to hurry up."

"You're not angry?" He acted like he expected me to punch a door or some other hard surface.

"No.” With his shirt half buttoned, his damp hair curly and sticking out on his head and his shoes untied, he was adorable although that hadn't stopped me from being angry at him in the past. 

“Mrs. Hudson is good at keeping secrets," he said. I wondered what kind of secrets Sherlock had told her. 

"Your shoes, they're out here by the door." Sherlock picked them up and handed them me while Anderson was outside honking. 

\-----------------------------

When Mary climbed out of the car at the auditorium, her breasts almost fell out. Sherlock's eyes lingered for an instant then looked away. Mary's breasts have that effect--kinda like a bad car accident. You don't want to look, but you can't look away. Mary talks animatedly about her day, and Sherlock filled her in on the subject of Dr. Lestrade's lecture tonight, which we could both tell, bored Mary. She was a bright person, but her interests didn't include computers. Period. She hates them. But hand her a  _ Wall Street Journal _ , and she was in heaven.

"You know," she said, "it was nice of Mrs. Hudson to get these tickets.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “John is very interested in this, aren’t you John?" I nodded. “It’s so important to have common interests in a relationship.”

"Common interests are overrated," said Mary. "Look at Phil and I, flower delivery boy by day and alcoholic by night hitches up with a hot LPN." Sherlock smirked, and I patted his ass.

He liked it.

We sat in the center of the third row, and the auditorium filled quickly. From the buzz we heard around us, Dr. Gregory Lestrade was an excellent speaker. Sherlock sat reading the promo info on Lestrade they'd handed out at the door while I gazed up at the ceiling tiles with John Lennon singing… _ ”I had to count them all, now I know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall…”  _  I looked over a Sherlock, who was still engrossed. Hmm, “ _ I'd love to turn you on _ .” I sighed. 

Hmm, maybe if I put my hand on his knee? There, that got his attention. 

Ahh, he scratched his nose. Handsome nose. Then he pressed a finger to his even more attractive lips. So hot. Right now I wanted him more than anything in the whole wide, micro-processing universe. 

The good Dean Withers waddled out to introduce the speaker. Sherlock laid his hand over the top of mine, lightly brushing my knuckles with his index finger. 

I hardly recognized Dr. Lestrade when he walked out: wide steps, shoulders back, arms relaxed. He commanded the auditorium, or maybe conducted was a better word. The audience sat up in their seats like an orchestra coming to attention as the baton raises. Even Mary sat alert.

The lecture was fascinating. He conveyed the theory in layman's terms using both anecdotes and analogies. I understood most of what he said--still, there  _ were _ moments that I was a little lost. I could tell that Sherlock was getting it, and by the way Mary kept shifting around that she didn't. I wasn't sure about Anderson since he wore his usual vacant stare.

I made direct eye contact with Lestrade exactly three times during the lecture. And I'm pretty sure he was looking and speaking directly at Sherlock often.

The question and answer session at the end was the most interesting and confusing. They discussed some basic science, and Mary perked up-- 

Sherlock raised his hand, asking the last question.

"If the universe is unfolding reality as it makes its computations, then aren't you in essence stating that man has no control over his destiny? That it is unfolded for him?"

"Yes, in a sense I am. And no I am not." He answered. "Quantum theory contains many paradoxes."

"That sounds more like a politician answering than a scientist," I whispered to Sherlock, covering my mouth with my hand. Lestrade stared at me. I didn't know how, but his eyes seemed to indicate that he knew what I'd said. 

We sat talking a few moments, waiting for the crowd to thin when a well-dressed little man with green tennis shoes limped up to us. 

"Professor Lestrade would like to meet you. Would you mind following me back stage?" he asked.

Everyone eyed me. I nodded, curious as to what Lestrade might want.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, “We’d be honored.” He stood and followed the odd man. We all fell behind. Igor, yeah, in  _ Young Frankenstein _ , that was who this odd fellow reminded my of--no hump on his back though. 

Then he turned around and said to us: " _ Walk this way!'" _ I started to laugh and was tempted to limp like Igor. In fact, I did start to do it until Mary stopped me.

"John," Mary hissed. "That's not very nice."

We followed. Without a limp.  


 

Sherlock did a slow burn though. I wasn’t sure why. He seemed anxious too. I spotted Lestrade in the middle of a group of captivated college students. Lestrade excused himself and strolled up to us, warmly shaking Sherlock's hand, then the rest of ours.   


"Interesting question you asked," Lestrade said, assessing Sherlock. "Although one I've heard it many times before, but interesting. Free will. Do we rule our fate or is it manipulated for us? The age old question."

"We make it," Sherlock said. 

"You seem pretty sure," Lestrade said, raising an eyebrow.

"I am." 

"Good to meet someone who knows. But the real reason I called you back here is to see how you're doing, John. I must say that you look much better than the last time I saw you. I hear that my nephew is in a band with you. He says you’re extremely talented. We have numerous gifted musicians and mathematicians in our family also.”

"Yeah, we use the same part of the brain for music and math calculations," I commented.

"Simplistically put, but true," Sherlock added. 

"Sean tells me Sherlock is gifted musically also. I'd like to hear you play your violin sometime."

Mary frowned and didn’t particularly like how he seemed to be flirting with Sherlock. Either did I.  


"He doesn’t play for audiences," I said. Sherlock jabbed me in the side, clearing his throat. 

“I was curious as to why you didn’t speak to us the other night,” Sherlock interrupted. 

“I’m afraid you have me at a loss. I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“At the Roadhouse,” Sherlock said. “The night it burned to the ground. In the parking lot.” 

“That’s hard to forget,” I said.

“Yes, I was there that night, but I don’t recall seeing you there,” Lestrade said to Sherlock. “I’m afraid I wasn’t wearing my contacts that night. I can’t see three feet in front of me without them.”

Sherlock gave him a long pause. When he didn’t speak, Lestrade gave Sherlock a once over and added, “I would have remembered seeing  _ you _ .”

"Ah, we have dinner reservations," I said. "Sorry to cut this short, but we really need to be going..." 

"Nice speaking to you. Maybe I will see you this weekend,” he said, brushing the cuff on his jacket. “And by the way John, I've never thought of going into politics."

Maybe he couldn’t _see_ us the other night, but he sure _heard_ what I said to Sherlock in that auditorium.

Sherlock looked at me and raised his eyebrow. “He deduced it.”

We walked away. As soon as we were out of earshot Mary said to me, "I can’t believe how jealous you got!"

"We need to find out what he wants," I said, ignoring her.  


“Looks like he wants Sherlock,” Anderson said.

"Fuck you," I said. 

“I’d just avoid him,” Mary suggested. 

"I don’t see how that possible. I’ll have to see him again. His nephew's in the band."

"Yeah, and that's weird," said Anderson. "This Sean guy appears from nowhere." He looks at me and smirks. "And  _ 'we have reservations' _ ? Come on! You want to be more obvious you’re pissed? There's no place within thirty miles that you need a reservation for, dick head."

"Do you think I give one fuck what he thinks," I said. “And I sure as hell don’t give a fuck what you think.”

“John, no need to be jealous. I only have eyes for you,” Sherlock said, putting his arm around me and shaking his head at Mary. “We can’t avoid Lestrade. We need to know what he knows. We may need to go a more direct route. Confront him at the Lestrade home.”

"No, shit?" said Mary. “That sounds like a bad idea.”

"Well, you’re not going there without me, that’s for sure,” I said. “Where do we want to go to eat? My vote is the Jade Imperial Dragon. Best Chinese restaurant in the tri-state area."

"Mmmm," Mary said, kissing Anderson on the chin, "I love Chinese food."

\-------------------------

As my foot hit the threshold, I whiffed the sweet, floral aroma of the special house herbal tea. I loved the Dragon with its huge saltwater aquarium partition, swimming with colorful clown, butterfly, and damsel fish. And I loved how the water from the tank reflected on the walls. The best buffet. Service great. Clean. The same couple running it for over twenty years, making the best sesame chicken I'd ever eaten. We sat in a booth farthest from the kitchen. I slid in first, and Sherlock beside me, his thigh brushing against mine. Anderson kissed Mary on the cheek as she excused herself to the little girls' room.

We made small talk while Mary was gone. Anderson stared at Sherlock the whole while, and I tried my best to ignore him. The waitress brought ice water and place settings. She poured the house tea, leaving a small pot on the table. I reached across Sherlock for the sugar, intentionally pressing my body into his.

When Mary got back, we ordered; I got my usual sesame chicken, and Sherlock got Kung Po. 

Conversation. Make conversation. I hated Anderson's staring.

"What'd you think of Lestrade’s lecture?" I asked.

"Most of what he said was,  _ 'wah, wahhhh, whah, whah, waaaahh.' _ You know, the way adults all talk on the old Charlie Brown specials on TV?"  Mary complained.

"I thought he was interesting," I said, playfully pushing Sherlock’s chopsticks aside as he tried to nab some pork fried rice off my plate.

"Reality is an algorithm," said Anderson. "I knew the Universe was fucked up."

"Language, please! Not so loud. We're in a public place," Mary said, slapping Anderson's thigh. "While he's very attractive, there's something about him I don't like. He's shifty. Like he's hiding something. Maybe he is behind that fire and what happened at your apartment. He was too into you, Sherlock _._ I don't like him."

“He’s really smart though,” said Anderson. “Kind of a freak. Like Sherlock.”

I stifled the urge to reach across the table and punch Anderson out. Maybe later.

"I've read that while many geniuses relate well in their academic world, they have serious problems with intimate relationships," Mary said, adding to the mess. 

"Did you get that information from one of those tests on  _ Cosmo _ magazine?" I asked. "The one titled, ' _ Are you in love with a psychopathic killer? Take this test and see...'  _ Now that's some stimulating reading."

“Sounds fascinating to me,” Sherlock said.

"Reading's not important in  _ Cosmo _ ," Anderson said. "It's the pictures that are stimulating. Lots of nipples. But you three probably aren't interested in women's nipples."

"Sometimes you're such an asshole, Phil. Besides," Mary said, leaning over the table to us, "I like women’s nipples. And I know John does. That leaves you, Sherlock.”

He wrinkled his nose.

“I did think that Lestrade was hot. He reminds me of Harrison Ford in the old days. Yum."

"He's okay looking," I said. 

“He is attractive. But not my type,” Sherlock said.

Everyone looked at me. Including Sherlock.

We ate, took bites off each other's plates and laughed, yet something is still really off between Sherlock, Mary, and Anderson--more that Anderson’s usual “freak” comment although I couldn't let that go again. Anderson's pissing me off-- treating _me_ so nicey, nice. 

“You know," I said, setting down my chopsticks, "Sherlock is _not_ a freak. I'm _sick_ of you saying it, so don’t say it again. _Ever._ ”  


"Listen, I'm sorry about that comment. I  _ can _ be an ass hole," Anderson said, pushing his sweet and sour chicken around his plate. He actually sounded sincere.

"No problem, Anderson," Sherlock said. That threw me. Sherlock not getting one back?

Being nice--it wasn't normal for Anderson or Sherlock. And Mary was acting all uncomfortable. Something was wrong. And I meant to find out. Time to do what Sherlock always does, bluff.

"Alright," I said, turning my water glass in circles and staring down Mary. "I know what this is all about, Sherlock told me, so stop being so damned polite."

"I'm so glad he told you," Mary said. "There really shouldn't be secrets between lovers. I know being too truthful about partners you've slept with can be problematic in some relationships, but in Sherlock and Anderson's case...you know. Oil and water. You don’t have anything to worry about. Just one of those 'one time' things. It's wise that Sherlock told you the truth."

It was like being slammed at 60 mph into a dashboard. Mary immediately knew she'd fucked up mega size. Sherlock paled. Anderson just squirmed in his seat like the snake that he was. 

"You slept...with Anderson?" I asked Sherlock under my breath. "Is there anyone left alive but me on this entire continent who hasn't fucked him?" My voice was rising. I was pissed. Hurt. 

I shoved my chair back, stood up and stomped out the front door. Sherlock followed close behind. I rationalized; I hypothesized, then I began to hyperventilate.

"John, it's not what you think," Sherlock tried to explain, but he knew I was close to hitting him and backed up a little. I paced back and forth on the sidewalk. I couldn't believe this. 

"We only did it twice," he said lamely.

"Twice?" I said. "YOU fucked him twice?"

"Fucked him, fucked me," he said, seeing my expression, he stepped closer to me. "Oh sorry, I guess saying that is a bit not good."

Mary had followed us out to the parking lot. Of course. At least we were all sticking Anderson with the bill.

“He has a really big dick,” Mary said, like it was an excuse.

"Once that night and then again the next morning," he said again, matter of fact like. I didn't know if I was pissed me off more that he’d slept with Anderson of that he hadn't slept with me. 

Anderson finally slithered out of the Dragon and waited sheepishly by the door. 

"Fuck this," I said to Mary. "Let's go. This isn’t the place for this conversation." They raced to catch up to me as I sprinted to Anderson's Olds and got in. He put the car in drive and sped off. 

I didn't notice where we were going; I looked listlessly out the window, pressed tightly against the car door as far from Sherlock as possible. Instead of street lights and headlamps, my mind projected images of Sherlock and Anderson together. Now I understood. Why Anderson messed with me lately, why he hadn’t picked at Sherlock in a while, why Mary and Sherlock were acting odd around each other. Shit. It must have been fairly recent. I was anxious--all because I began to wonder if Sherlock wanted someone else. He  _ never  _ slept with anyone. At least as far as I knew. Then again, he’s good at keeping things from me--obviously. He reached across, grasped my hand, and squeezed it hard once. I finally looked over at him; it was dark, but I could see the tears welled up in his eyes. I squeezed his hand once back. I was still angry. But that was my best friend.  


Sherlock slid closer.   


"Please," he said, leaning into me, wanting more, waiting for more. 

We decided at the same time. Like proverbial floodgates opening, we met, mouths open, still hungry. I kissed his face, tasting his damp salty tears on my lips. One hand twisted my hair, tugging my scalp while his other slipped up my thigh, making pinpricks of light dance behind my eyes. I couldn't see. I groped blindly, my arms reaching. I didn't care that Anderson was listening--I  _ wanted _ him to hear.

"Sherlock," I groaned, sliding in front of Sherlock away from the door. I clung to him, tipping him down with me, pulling his shirt out of his jeans. I undid each button and pushed it off his shoulders, curling one hand against his chest. I reached my other hand and stroked the moist freckled skin of his back. Side by side, Sherlock’s back pressed to the seat while I balanced on the edge, his tongue practiced those amazing gymnastics on the roof of my mouth, sending delicious sensations into every inch of me. 

Then I felt the first contact of Sherlock's hand on my crotch, and I twitched up in his hand. I started to cry out, but Sherlock filled my mouth with his tongue. 

I heard Anderson and Mary murmur in the front seat. The car stopped. Sherlock's hand fumbled to unbutton my jeans, and my breath came in jagged gasps as he undid each one. I waited for his touch, his large, long fingers grasped me. 

Mary's blouse flew over seat, next her bra, which landed on top of my head. And Pop, like a sling shot, Sherlock flew her bra back into the front seat (they really do snap). I hiccuped a laugh as Sherlock's body awkwardly slid down mine, lower, then lower still. 

"Shit, don't stop," I begged. That was Sherlock's hand on me. His mouth moved down my chest, and without his lips to still my mouth, I couldn't shut up. I bit my own lip--I moaned and mumbled his name. 

“God, you’re big,” he said, looking up at me wickedly.

His tongue licked my belly, trailing down slowly. I lifted my hips, shaking. His hands fumbled my jeans and underwear, and he managed somehow in that tight space to get them over my hips and down a bit without pushing me off the seat. I wanted those perfect lips on my cock. 

I heard Anderson and Mary whispering again in the front seat. 

Biting my lip, I tried to keep quiet. I tasted blood in my mouth from suppressing the moans. I couldn't stand this torture of licking and nipping. Please suck my cock. My hands clutched the vinyl seats to brace myself, but it was my side suction-cupped to the seat that kept me in place. I didn't care that I was parking in Anderson's car like some horny teenager. All I cared about was the feel of Sherlock's hot, slick tongue as he licked me rock hard. All I cared about was his mouth. God, that mouth. Gasping. He ground hard into my leg, dry fucking it. I whimpered and squirmed as he finally drew me down his throat.

"God, yes," I cried, slapping my hand over my mouth. My other hand burrowed into Sherlock's black curls and tugged. I couldn't believe it was happening. I thought,  _ I'm gonna scream, he feels and sounds so good _ . 

"What are you doing to him Sherlock? Killing him?" Mary giggled. I'd muffled my gasps behind my hand, but not well enough. Then I saw her head peek over the seat. "Holy Shit!" she said, then ducked back down. 

I didn't care. 

Fuck. I couldn't hold back. I shuddered and came. He swallowed. 

Me. 

Sherlock pulled himself up. His hair was a mess, and he was licking his lips. I pushed myself up next to him. I kissed his chin, then his mouth. I tasted myself, musk and salt. He opened his mouth and moaned. I wanted to do to him what he'd just done for me, and I reached down and began to unbutton his jeans, my hand inside. He gasped as I grasped his cock. 

Anderson started the car, and we began to move. 

Sherlock moaned, then in that deep, baritone voice of his, he whispered hoarsely into my ear, "Play with me all you like, but I want you to finish me off at home."


	8. In a Grain of Sand

The ride home gave me far too much time to think.

About Sherlock _and_ Anderson.

About them. Together.

About what will finally happen when we get home. Will I fuck him? Will he fuck me? Will he back out? Can something big fit into such as small hole? Gravel crunching under the tires of Anderson's Olds signaled we're home. The moment had arrived. The car backfired, punctuating the moment; Anderson babied the gas, keeping the old heap from stalling.

"Night you two," Mary giggled.

I nodded and got out Sherlock's side of the car. Fifty feet feels like five miles when you're a horny bastard--that front door never seemed that far away before. Then the stairs--holy mother of god. And tonight of all nights, Mrs. Hudson became the guardian of the universe.

She’d already had a few of her “soothers,” or as other people call them, “martinis.” She greeted us with a tray of warm chocolate chip cookies and a sly, tipsy smile.

“There you boys are! Don’t you both look _handsome_ ,” she said, assessing us both up and down. “And...well, I worried a bit since you were going to see _that man_ , but you're home safe, _and_ you’ve had a very _good time._ ” Sherlock actually blushed as he drew his coat around himself to hid the evidence of just how good a time we were having.

“Yes, it was entertaining,” I said, relieving her of the cookies. Sherlock swiped one off the tray and began to nibble it.

“I’ll let you boys have some privacy,” she winked.

The hallway echoed as she shut her door, and he stood next to me, bumping his hip against my side and grinning, a dab of chocolate on his bottom lip.

"Let's take this to the bedroom," he said, racing ahead of me up the stairs. We slipped through the door, and he locked it with a click behind us. Sherlock's shirt was still half unbuttoned and untucked and his hair a mass of unruly curls, both heated reminders of what happened in the back seat less than ten minutes ago. I was worthless at playing calm and collected following him into the bedroom. Sherlock always, always, always knew me. At least Sherlock was just as nervous. Although he was the better actor, he couldn’t hide from me tonight. He _seemed_ to calmly walk to the bed to sit down, but his shaking hand patting the covers and the tiniest tremor of his lips, gave him away. 

I waited while he stilled his hands in his lap.

Closing my eyes brought ghostly visions of Anderson and Sherlock together. We had to talk. Ignoring it wasn’t a healthy option. Getting enraged wasn’t either. After all we’d been through, this wasn’t a Mount Everest. More like a slope at the local ski resort, Bittersweet, but it still looked like a long way down from the top.

I’m sure he was hoping to avoid this. I don't know as he wanted sing to me _“the Ballad of Anderson and Sherlock,”_ and tonight his voice wouldn't carry him. He composed himself as best as possible--opened his mouth several times, but nothing came out. The more he delayed, the angrier I got.

Sherlock flinched as I cracked my knuckles and jutted my chin out. He sat entirely on the bed, his long legs curled defensively under him, those bare feet bobbing nervously despite being pinned beneath him.

Turned toward him, my legs still dangling off the bed. "Alright,” I burst out, “why _did_ you sleep with Anderson?" I hadn't _meant_ for my words to come out with such contempt.

This time when he opened his mouth, he spoke, and his legs twisted like a pretzel beneath him.

"It happened a few months ago after the Battle of the Bands,” he began slowly. “After we closed the bar, the band and few other people muscled their way into 221B. Anderson volunteered my apartment without asking me. You know I don’t like company, but…”

Suddenly it came tumbling back--that night’s significance. My chest tightened. I’d gone home with Lucy afterward. _And_ it was Sherlock’s birthday. Even now as I look into the sea green of his eyes, and I see the pain remains.

“We’d played this stupid drinking game,” he continued. “Don’t look at me like that. Yes, I admit that I participated in the ridiculousness too. But the game wasn’t as awful I’d anticipated."

I frowned, mind working over what happened. He was drunk. He never drank.

"Really John, your friends are imbeciles. One of them threw up in my magazine stand. _Ruined_ my National Geographic collection.” He sat up straighter. “They left at about 3:30 after _the television incident_.”

Hmmm. That explains the new flat screen.

“They all stumbled home except Anderson who’d passed out on my couch, snoring loud enough to wake Mrs. Hudson downstairs. I didn’t have much choice since he refused to get up. Unfortunately, Anderson didn’t stay passed out long. He woke when I was in the middle of Bach’s Chaconne from Partita in D minor--rather a challenge to play. And after six shots of Johnny Walker, I thought I played it fiendishly well. I’m afraid Anderson did not agree. He said it sounded like tom cats caterwauling. What does _he_ know about the technical aspects of Baroque violin playing?”

Sherlock lowered his head. “After a round of mutual insults, I put away my violin. It was then that he asked me what it was like for people to come out to friends and family. Generally, people who frame questions as such are asking for themselves. I didn’t think Anderson was gay, but he had checked me out on occasion. The man refused to stop pressing me for more details. And you know me, John, I much rather be the one interrogating. I explained in the simplest terms that it was never an issue with my family, but he wanted to know what growing up ‘queer’ was like in society, through school. John, I knew I was different, but not because I was attracted to men. I imparted that to Anderson, but the man is completely dense. He refused to understand the simplest terms. He was fixated on how _sex was_ different. In particular, how fucking a man differed from fucking a woman.”

Sherlock stopped for a moment as I crossed my arms and clenched my teeth in response.

“I told him I had little to compare it with, but I didn’t _believe_ it was that different. The man was all drunk and touchy-feely and obnoxious and said he must know the difference _exactly_. I was ready to throw him down the stairs, then he posed his fixation as an experiment where my assistance was essential to his comprehension."

I held my breath then slowly let it out. Before I could stop myself I asked, "Well, did you at least enjoy it?"

"It was passable," Sherlock said, wiping his sweaty palms against his tense thighs.

I choked out a laugh. “I’m sure Anderson would love to hear that.”

"I’m afraid he did. I’ve never really thought sex could be more than okay. With anyone. The next morning, he wanted to know what it felt like--to _be_ fucked. So, I fucked him. I did it... Don't look at me that way." Sherlock rubbed his temple. "After ‘the experiment,’ we avoided each other. Well, he avoided me more. Then, a few weeks ago, we invariably ran into each other at one of your gigs. We agreed to just pretended it never happened. It was  a non-issue--that is until you and I became..."

Scratching the back of my neck, I thought about it, and I didn’t feel as angry. There was a sadness in all he said. Not just regret. An emptiness. “So you think sex is just okay?” I asked. “That it’s always going to be just okay.”

"No. Not with you,” he said, as he unwound those long legs from beneath him, then turned to fully face me. “It’s different. I feel...I can’t put it into words. I care. I feel safe. With you. But it’s more than that," Sherlock whispered. “It’s hard for me to think. You’re all that’s there. For the first time, I can let go because I feel safe.” He ran his hands through his hair in a desperate attempt to get me to understand. "You're my friend. My only friend. You’ve been there my entire life. We were in the same class in kindergarten. Remember when I fell off the monkey bars and broke my arm? You wouldn’t leave. My mom had to take you with us to the hospital. I used to jump off the other end of the see-saw just to watch you bust your ass. Kids show affection in perverse ways. That was love. I loved you, John. I still love you. You are my friend. I fucked Anderson because I was, well, drunk and hurt but also because I never thought this would happen with us..."

Sherlock paused as I leaned closer to him, my thigh against his.

"I’m sorry. It was your birthday and that I left you to that gang of idiots, and for what?” I asked, more to myself than to Sherlock. I understood. “I have to wonder if there’s more to this. Anderson burned you, and he wanted to pretend it never happened. Even if you hate the man and think he’s a complete fucking idiot, that had to hurt. You didn't want to be burned again--that’s why you’ve held back..."

Sherlock nipped at his bottom lip. I rested my hand bravely on his thigh.

"I know who I want,” Sherlock said, “and I've wanted him for along time. I’ve waited. In junior, high school. Even back then. I waited," Sherlock's hand moved over mine. "I waited for you. I’d wait a lot longer to make sure. I wanted more than friendship from you. More than sex. But you didn’t act like you wanted the same. Until now."

"What do you need to hear from me to make you feel that I really want you?"

Sherlock sighed. "I don’t know that it’s words that I need. You’ve made it clear to others that we’re together tonight. I think that meant more to me than anything you can say. And what we’re about to do, I want this. Even if I said I still wasn’t sure--I don't have the strength to say no again. I hope you want this as much.”

"God, yes," I said. My hand moved up to his crotch, brushing his interested cock. "Take these clothes off. I want to see those beautiful limbs of yours sprawled out on the sheets."

Disappointment followed as Sherlock began to crawl away from me and across the bed. He reached into the middle drawer of his bedside table until he found a few condom packages and a tube of lube.

He placed them next to his pillow.

"I’ll finish taking off your shirt,” I commanded with a wink, “and then maybe I'll let you take off mine."

Sherlock's eyes never wavered from my hands as I unbuttoned the last few, exposing his creamy white belly scattered with a few freckles. I had his shirt off, and he quickly whipped my shirt over my head and threw it unceremoniously onto the floor.

With exaggerated motions, I unbuttoned my jeans. I hesitated at each rivet and rubbed my cock, tormenting him a bit.

"Lucky hand," Sherlock sighed, rubbing his own crotch in return. I kicked my jeans off the bed and knelt on the bed. I reached into my boxers, pulled out my cock and stroked, taunting him more.

"Beautiful. So, beautiful," Sherlock said, helping me slide my boxers off my hips. "You were pretty vocal the other night. But I think when your big cock's inside my tight ass you'll yell much louder." 

I moaned and nodded.

My boxers flew off next, landing at the foot of the bed.

He gave me show, slowly unzipping his own jeans. He has a beautiful body. White, creamy, not muscular but not overly thin. Perfect musculature, defined and taut and sensuous. Like an ancient marble statue come to life. Those tiny freckles that some might think as imperfections only served to accentuate his milky, rich complexion. He dramatically undid his jeans and stripped them off. He has on bikini briefs--red ones. His hard cock poked out of the top, and I could see its moistened tip. My heart pounded in my chest as he pulled off his briefs. His cock popped straight out like a gift, glistening.

I knew he was big, but shit. I mean, he's not monstrous but looking at his cock--it was long and hard and tapered, and sweet god, a bit longer than I’d expected. I was definitely thicker, but he was a bit longer than me. I knew I was pretty well endowed, but…I thought about what it would be like for him to fuck me.

"Relax," he whispered in my ear. "I won't do anything that you don't want me to do. I’d rather you fuck me. I need to feel your beautiful, thick cock shoved inside me. I’m not going to pretend that I’m experienced when it comes to this, but I know how to make you feel good." He laid his hand on my belly and massaged it.

"So, what do you want me to do, umm, besides try to relax, which by the way is impossible," I said.

“I want you to tell me what you want.”

I’d thought about this a lot. I wanted to know what it was like inside him. “I want to fuck you.”

His hands had rested quietly on his thighs as he'd sat next to me on the bed, but now I swear, the way those long fingers grasped and clawed the sheets as he heard me tell him how I wanted him was so, so hot.

He nodded for me to move between his legs, but I kissed him first. God those lips were sin, and I was the worst of all the sinners. He opened his mouth and moaned as I pressed my chest to his and our cocks slid next to each other.

“So perfect,” I said.

"I’ll spread my legs a bit more," he said, after composing himself. His long legs splayed out wider. I kissed him hard as he did. When my lips left his, he bit out a disappointed groan as I positioned myself and sat up on my knees between his thighs.

He pulled his legs up a bit, bent at the knees. I helped myself to his lube next to the pillow by his head. I had an idea what to do. I’d seen a bit of gay porn before and smeared the lube on my fingers and thumb. Sherlock eyes rolled back.

"John,” he said, voice deep yet unsteady, “use those doctor’s fingers and play with the outside of my anus.”

I did.

"Fuck. God, yes! that feels...oh!" he said, squirming around, repressing a yell. I wanted him to cry out, but not yet. Besides, I wasn’t sure how much Mrs. Hudson could hear--although most likely she had her ear to the wall anyway.

He began to slowly, firmly stroke himself as my finger caressed his asshole in small circular motions. God, I don’t know if I was going to live through this.

He panted. I was hard as a rock. His pucker let me in, I pushed inside, and the pressure and pain flooded him all at once. Sherlock actually whimpered. I recognized a bit of panic in his face. It was intense, but he nodded for me to go ahead.

"Sometimes this helps me to relax, too," he said, stroking his cock faster. "Yes. John...so good. I know it may sound gross, but I’ll push back, like I’m trying to push your finger out of me.” Jesus, listening to him say that in that rich baritone voice all choked with desire sent spasms through me. His muscles clenched onto my finger and my cock imagined what it’d be like inside his tight ass. His ass clenched harder when I found his prostate. It felt strange but hot. So hot.

"God, yes, John," he said, "like that. You are magnificent!"

I slowly eased my finger inside and out, taking pains to hit that spot just to hear him beg for more. I panted and moaned along with him, my cock rutting against the sheets. Along with his slow stroking of his cock, I thought I was going to explode.

Easing another finger inside, he clenched again, pushing back. Gently in and out, each time a bit farther. Then I crooked my finger just so and brushed intentionally against that button inside.

I gasped. That spark. Fuck what was that? Definitely my prostate. How was that even fucking possible?

"John! Right there," he said, shaking. His toes fucking curled. "Some guys really like to have it massaged. I didn’t think I did, but god I do now! Don’t stop, please, John."

"Yes! God." I hiccuped as my finger brushed that sensitive button again, and it did something inside me as well as him.

"John, use your thumb, too."

I couldn't speak, just growled in response and did it. I watched as he slowed pumping his cock, backing off, keeping himself from shooting off. I pushed back as instructed as he clenched on my thumb and fingers. I brushed the spot inside. He bucked. Like _The Agony and the Ecstasy--_ I was Michelangelo, and I was painting his Sistine Chapel. And somehow, somehow, we’d joined. I’d become part of the masterpiece.

“The condom,” he said, free hand fumbling next to his head, “fuck me.”

He was a bit disappointed when I removed my fingers and unrolled the condom onto my length with shaking hands, but the anticipation written on those perfectly chiseled features made my cock twitch.

"Mmm. I also won’t come as fast with it on," I said as I slicked myself up. “And I really need to last a bit longer than a few strokes.”

Sherlock tipped his ass, beckoning my cock to his pucker. My tip brushed his anus with a shiver.

"I’ll do the same as I did with your finger." He continued to stroke his cock only now his hand moved leisurely.

I nodded. I began to push myself inside his ass. Fuck it looked like it hurt.

“Should I stop? Are you okay?” I asked.

“No, don’t stop. This is amazing. I can’t think. I...please...shove your big cock inside me...fill me...I want this.” He didn’t hold his breath as I pushed inside him. Instead he kept breathing in and out slowly. In through his nose, out through his mouth. He jerked his cock off harder and faster to distract himself from the pain. It worked.

"So," he rasped, "how much more of you is left that needs to fit up there?"

I started chuckling. He looked into my eyes, then down to try to see just how much farther I had to go since I couldn’t answer. I let out a strangled cry.

"Almost there?" he finally asked, pushing his ass into me farther. I was starting to see bright colored spots in front of my eyes. Fuck.

I found my voice and announced, "There. I'm in."

Sherlock didn't move. He was panting.

Then suddenly, a heat spread from my groin to my face as he rocked into me.

"John," he said, “ _look at me_. Fuck me hard.” And my eyes meet his. I searched desperately inside their emerald-green depths. I touched his face. The desire, the tenderness I saw in his eyes pitched deep inside. He took his hand away from his cock, and I pressed my entire body down on top of his, my hips snapping into him. His stomach against mine, sweaty and hot with his cock trapped between us. The intensity of the contact shocked me. He struggled beneath me for a moment--but our locked eyes never wavered.

All my weight on my elbows and forearm, he watched my reaction as my hips undulated then pounded. I'd regained some of my senses. The feeling, so perfect. He begged me to fuck him harder.

I did. He groaned. "God, when I look in your eyes,” he said voice hoarse between gasps, “I'm...John, do you know how hard it is not to get lost?"

"Yes, I do know. I feel the same."

He grabbed my ass and impaled my cock into him.

I thrust in and out, white hot pain shot through me. I realized the pain wasn’t mine. I slowed and gradually the pain turned to inconceivable bliss. I groaned, and he pushed up against me. Sherlock's hands trembled as he cupped my ass, his breath ragged. I reached up and my fists tangled in his curls, urging his mouth to mine.

"John," he murmured, and that was enough. I was right on the edge.

"Make me come," he begged. He bucked into me. Suddenly I felt his fears. That he would remain this quivering mass, stimulated to the edge of some black hole from which he'd never return. 

I held myself off. He needed this. For me to let him know he was the one. He was my center. I pushed into him, lighting on that spot inside him. He cried out. Sparks and bright auras filled my vision. I knew he saw them as well. He came, wet between us, he yelled so loudly I feared Mrs. Hudson might call the police. I answered his shudders and came after. He muffled his cries into my chest as I rocked his head and brushed his sweaty curls off his forehead afterward.

"So," Sherlock said, gasping and looking up at me. "Can we do that again?"

\---------------------------------

I woke up looking at him looking at me.

"Mmm, good morning," I said. "Sleep well?"

"Wonderful," Sherlock answered. "How 'bout you Superman? Relaxed?"

"Every inch," I joked.

"Ready for more?"

"I want to make one thing perfectly clear," I said.

"What would that be?" he asked.

“You’re sleeping in here from now on."

\-------------------------

I got up afterward and made coffee. We'd spent the most of the morning in bed. Sherlock was too happy. Not good. It's been my experience in that when something or someone comes along and life gets too good--that life slaps you back down and fucks you over. Like Mom, Dad and Harry dying, or car hitting a llama, or getting stabbed by a mercenary.

Sublime happiness made me uncomfortable. Not that I would ever regret last night. Sherlock… Yeah, I loved him. I probably always loved him--I just was too stupid to recognize it. I just had problems expressing myself.

I knew I was having a serious identity crisis--details like, was I still human? Was the world out to get me? Was it crazy to fall into the abyss of love now of all times? Deep in the pit of despair, I hung on to a craggy ledge. For what? Hmm, to have the most incredible sex of my entire life?

I let go of the ledge.

I called in sick.

Tabloid headline reads: _Unknown homosexual couple overdose on spectacular sex._

We did nothing the whole day. Nothing except take off each others clothes over and over again. I wanted to go practice with the band, but every time I tried to get ready, my clothes didn't want to stay on. I practiced with Sherlock instead.

And I learned an amazing secret today. I never realized that Sherlock has a secret signal! His nose twitches every time he thinks about fucking me.

 

_…Oh look, John is bending over. Twitch. _

_...Oh, now, he's licking his lips. Twitch. _

... _And now John is scratching his crotch! Twitch. Twitch. _

 

Rather cute, really. Convenient, too. For me. A code.

 

All these years I'd been around him I just thought he had some kind of eccentric impediment.

Reality called at 6:15 p.m. I remembered what I forgot. Sherlock remembered but didn’t give a shit.

"Sherlock?" I asked, sprawling out on the living room floor with Toby in Sherlock’s silky blue bathroom that was almost as good as our sex. "The card on the flowers? What did it say?"

"John," said Sherlock, rolling next to me and nibbling my ear and hand inching lower, "I told you to find out for yourself. Go to a translation site on the internet and type in the code. But not _now._ "

"Why don’t you just tell me? It’d save time," I said, fondling his cock.

"I didn’t do it before because you need to do this for yourself,” he huffed.

“If I do it now that means I'll have to get up, and you're so...tasty and need to be licked."

“John, you need to do it.”

I groaned and gave him sad eyes and licked my lips. I didn’t work. I got up and retrieved his laptop from the kitchen table. I sat back down next to him, logged in, then googled the words “ _binary code translator_.”

"Is this what I need?" I asked. He nodded, and I clicked on the site.

"The card is in the..." Sherlock begin, but I had already started typing in the code.  

 

011101000110111100100000011100110110010101100101001000

000111010001101000011001010010000001110101011011100110

100101110110011001010111001001110011011001010010000001

101001011011100010000001100001001000000110011101110010

011000010110100101101110001000000110111101100110001000

0001110011011000010110111001100100

 

“John, I know you have an exceptional memory for numbers, but I don’t recall that you were an idiot savant."

"Just stop it and quit insulting me," I said. “You could have just told me the message, but _no-o-o_ , you have to be such a dick about it.”

Then I clicked on “enter.” The translation popped up in the adjacent box: _"To see the universe in a grain of sand."_

"Your memory. It has increased," Sherlock said, bouncing on the bed.

"Okay, so I've always remember numbers, big deal. What's more important is that this is from my favorite poem _and_ my favorite line from that poem--well almost. It’s not quite right. In William Blake's poem, the line states ‘see the _world_ in a grain of sand’ not _universe._ Hmm, so why this line? Why this poem? Why Universe?"

“You remembered a stream of ones and zeroes that you’d only glanced at once. You could not do that before. Telephone numbers, yes. This _no_.”

"Will you stop it with that? This message was meant for me. 'The Universe is a computer' and maybe you're the sand," I said. “It’s a metaphor.”

“Of course the message was meant for you, John. Do keep up. However, in poetry analysis, one never begins with the figurative meaning, one begins with the literal.”

Literal, figurative. I was stuck on the whole idea that this was always meant for me. That would mean I was meant to deliver the roses that day, that would mean the delivery van really “ _did”_ break down. That the card purposefully _“fell off”_ the bud vase. I guess it's possible. But _What's the Frequency, Kenneth_?

"Bacon and eggs," I said.

"What? What are you talking about?" Sherlock said, kissing my nose. “If anything, food is not on the menu.”

"Some people need sustenance. I want bacon and eggs. Get semi-dressed," I said. "We're going shopping."

Surprisingly, Sherlock decided I needed to eat too.  

\---------------------------

We'd just paid for our groceries at the local Meijer’s store when I saw him.

"Over there," I murmured, motioning to the first aisle near the bottle return.

Sherlock knew immediately. He followed my eyes to the front of the store. Watching him, my face betrayed me, recalling the twisting knife. Sherlock turned and walked around me as I took the bags and pushed through the checkout line. We followed him, winding around the shoppers and carts. Out the main entrance, the door hissed shut behind us. Another parking lot. At dusk again. With Sherlock.

And Sherlock’s cat-like eyes were fixed on the stranger who glared at me. The lights of the lot cast an eerie yellow glow and feet pounding the asphalt echoed. As he tried to lose us, we zigzagged through parked cars, but he’d had a head start. Sherlock sprinted ahead, his long legs narrowing the distance between them as the man ran toward far end of the lot. The bastard always does stupid shit like this--thinks he’s damn invincible. I ran and cut left to toward my assailant to head him off--the eggs weren’t going to survive this. Instead racing away, the man spun and rushed _toward_ me, yelling that he needed to speak to me. I wasn’t much interested in giving him directions again, but I stood my ground.

I had nothing but a plastic shopping bags with a few groceries and the eggs. I didn’t want him anywhere near Sherlock. I was the invincible one. I grabbed a can of tomato soup out to the bag and winged it at his head. I heard a crunch as it hit his temple, but he continued toward me like it never touched him.

I reached back in the bag. Pasta, frozen peas, bacon, seedless grapes, and the damn eggs. Ahh...canned baked beans! I threw the beans.

A first Sherlock was confused at the change in direction. But as the second can slammed into the man's nose, Sherlock adjusted and he jumped, feet banging over the hood of a car as he took the shortest route toward us, leaping down, pushing shopping carts out of his way. Sherlock sprinted toward him, eyes locked on his target and lunged toward the man.

Sherlock saw it coming before I did, a car rolling up on us fast. So did our assailant. He got between the car and Sherlock, wiping the blood that gushed out of his nose with the back of his hand. He shouted, "Gun! Get down." The halide parking lamp above us sparked at the same moment the gun flashed. I heard three pops. The man spun, then fell against Sherlock.

I felt a sting in my arm. I saw the blood. In slow motion, I watched as someone stepped back into a black SUV.

Then, a crowd gathered. Covered in blood, Sherlock stood staring at me. The pain in my arm was trivial compared to the ache inside me. Then utter relief that none of the blood was Sherlock’s. I clutched my arm, catching my breath.

I heard sirens.

"He took the bullet for you," I said to Sherlock. “I don’t get it.”

Bending down winded, I checked my assassin. “He's alive." I said, applying pressure to the worst wound. "Nose is broken, shot twice, but doesn’t look like he’s hit in any major organs. He’s bleeding out bad though.”

“And you're shot."

"Yeah, and we lost most of the eggs too," I said, as Sherlock inspected the eggy mess that’s the contents of the one of the white plastic shopping bags. An odd tingling crept from my shoulder to my arm--like the springy sensation when my foot or arm falls asleep and blood rushes back. "The shot went clear through my arm. I'll be okay in a few minutes--it's already starting to heal; I can feel it."

The paramedics arrived before the police. Brave guys. A shooting and they raced to help a man they didn't know, not knowing whether or not the shooter was still near. For all they knew, the shooter could have been us. They relieve me, and the tall lanky-haired medic noticed my wound and Sherlock covered in blood, assessed us, then continued to help the man prone on the ground. I felt the blood sticking to my shirt and knew by the time the medic got to me that he might not even find a scar.

The police came soon enough. Two officers at first. And then two other cars joined them. They questioned the people milling around the lot. We stayed back, trying to avoid them, but being covered in blood is a bit hard to miss--even for the local police. Then the cashier pointed to us along with other people who had witnessed what went on in the lot. I had no idea what to say to the officers--the truth? Who would believe that?  They separated us. Me, I got a female officer, last name Byron. I decided to give her the condensed version of the truth--as much as was believable: _“A man mugged us. Another man, most likely his get away, shot the him by mistake, and then drove off, leaving his partner.”_

The paramedic who relieved me earlier came up to check out my arm. I kept my hand over the wound.

"Is he going to be okay?" I asked him. "Do you know his name?"

"No ID. He'll make it though," he said. He tried to take my hand off my arm to look at it.

“It just grazed me,” I said, clutching my arm tighter. I didn’t want to be difficult, but I couldn’t let him check me. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you refusing treatment? I should look at it. You’ve had significant blood loss.”

"It’s not all mine," I said, knowing it was my way out of this fucking mess. "He bled all over. But I’m pre-med. I know how to treat this injury. Like I said, it just grazed me. That other man needs your attention more than I do even if he did try to rob us. If I think I need to get it looked at, I’ll go to the clinic.”

The paramedic shook his head and shrugged, raising his eyebrow at Officer Byron. The paramedics had no choice as long as an official report was filed regarding the incident.

The officer pulled the medic out of my earshot. Sherlock was getting loud as he talked to a couple of the other officers. He obviously knew them, and they knew him. Then Byron and walked over to the group, trying to shoo Sherlock away. Like that would work. Sherlock scuffled over to me.

“I don’t think they like you much,” I said.

“I get that a lot,” he said. “I told them we’d come down to the station later. Let’s get out of here while they’re distracted.”  We started for his Cutlass when Byron and her partner cut us off.

"Hey, you two aren't going anywhere. You'll need to come with us down to the station for a statement." God, not again. I recalled the first time I heard those words; I’d thought they’d only said things like that in the movies or on some old police TV dramas. Since being on crime scenes with Sherlock, I’ve heard those same words too many times to count.

"Guess bacon and eggs scrambled eggs will have to wait," I said.

\-----------------------------------

After being interviewed for over an hour, it ended abruptly when Sherlock deduced that the two detectives had oral sex together in the squad car not more than an hour before our incident. No need for those questions. After a fuck of a lot of swearing and name calling, we sat in the lobby on green vinyl chairs with duct tape covering the holes. The yellowed wax on the floor half concealed the cracked tiles--I'd counted up to 157 cracks when I heard Mycroft’s voice. Sherlock’s brother? What now? I looked up, and there he stood with that fucking umbrella and that hot female assistant of his.

Enough people saw the shooter, so they let us go. Or that’s what they told us. What really happened was Mycroft stepped in.

I really didn’t get what Mycroft did. Sherlock always implied he was CIA, or some covert and mysterious branch of our government. I hadn’t seen him in ages. Not since Sherlock’s last OD.

Sherlock told his brother to take us to his car, but Mycroft refused and said, he’d have Sherlock’s car brought to the apartment later. It sucked being between two immovable mountains.

My hand covered my wound, or lack of wound, on my arm the entire time at the station. When we go in his car, Sherlock sat so that his arm rested against my “wound,” concealing it from Mycroft.

Mycroft invited himself up for coffee, which I agreed to with hesitation--it seemed the polite thing to do. Of course, polite isn’t a priority for either of the Holmes brothers.

“Mycroft doesn’t have time for coffee,” Sherlock interrupted, shaking his head “no” at me.

I shrugged. Like we had a choice?

He came in anyway.

“Be back in an hour,” Mycroft told his assistant. “That should be sufficient.”

As we climbed the stairs to 221b, I wondered “sufficient for what?” Toby greeted us at the door, tail wagging.

Sherlock, arms crossed, sat down at the table across from Mycroft, who was scratching Toby behind the ears. I set what was left of the groceries on the kitchen counter, then excused myself to change my bloody shirt, but not before trying to pick up the folder and notepad.

“No need to remove those,” Mycroft said. “I already know what’s in them.”

Of course the omnipotent stick-in-the-ass would know what’s in a plain folder on our table. Setting them back down, I went into Sherlock’s bedroom. Which raised Mycroft’s eyebrow.

"What I do need to know is how much contact both of you have had with Gregory Lestrade." I heard Mycroft say from the other room as I pulled out a t-shirt. ”Then you can tell me about your upcoming nuptials. I do hope I’m invited. Mummy will be so proud.”

I didn’t hear Sherlock say a word. I assumed he rolled his eyes.

I came out of the bedroom and went out to make some coffee since neither of them seemed capable. Toby followed me looking for a handout.

“Maybe _you_ could tell us about Lestrade,” Sherlock suggested. “You seem to know so much.”

I ignored Sherlock and told Mycroft briefly about the contact we’d had with Lestrade. I didn’t think I was telling him anything he didn’t already know. While I told Mycroft, Sherlock began to check the apartment for “listening devices.”

“I thought you got all the hidden cameras months ago,” I said. Sherlock shrugged.

"Show me where you were shot," Mycroft said. “And stabbed,” he added.

“No. You’re not showing him a thing,” Sherlock said. “Mycroft, leave.”

“There are other people who you should be much more worried about that me, dear brother.”

“I think we’ve already met a few of them,” I said as I finished putting the water and coffee grounds in the machine.

“Yes, but there are people out there who are far more dangerous,” Mycroft said. 

“Than you?” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, he’s pretty scary,” I said sarcastically and crossed my arms. “That umbrella. So intimidating.”

Mycroft looked at me expectantly. “Shirt?”

“Don’t. He just wants to see you with your shirt off.”

“Might as well. He already knows,” I said. Sighing, I pulled off my t-shirt with Sherlock shaking his head.

“Yes, while John does have a certain rugged charm, he is a bit off limits, isn’t he?” Mycroft stepped closer and inspected my wounds. Where the angry red scars on my stomach had once been, nothing remained, and the faint, pale reminder of my gunshot wound to the arm a mere blemish on the skin.

“Remarkable,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock practically growled at him.

"Tut, tut. So possessive! You really do have it bad, don’t you, little brother?”

When Sherlock didn’t respond, Mycroft continued. “The video surveillance tapes from those parking lots didn’t show much. Poor quality.”

I put my shirt right back on with Sherlock watching me carefully. He didn’t trust his brother, for good reason. Although his interests might be personal, he didn’t have any intimate interest in me--I was certain of that.

“Is there significant pain after the injuries? How long before you begin to heal? It looks to be rapid.”

“Don’t answer him. I don’t want you becoming one of his guinea pigs,” Sherlock said. “That’s why you are here--spying? For the government? You aren’t touching him.”

I went back out into the kitchen to pour our coffee. Sorting through the silverware drawer for a spoon, I bit my bottom lip. I’d thought of that too. It was a real possibility. All too real. But something in me thought more of Mycroft than that. Despite it all, he _was_ Sherlock’s brother. He’d helped Sherlock before during desperate times. He’d do it again.

“Really, I thought you’d have more faith in me than that,” Mycroft said.

Hard for me to have faith, but I thought, reaching to pull down coffee mugs from the middle shelf of the oak kitchen cabinets, that people have to start somewhere. Acts of faith. Proof of faith.

“There is so much that you don’t know about what is happening,” Mycroft said, a concern in his voice that I rarely ever heard. “If you did, you would be terrified. Believe it or not, Sherlock, I do care about you and what happens to you. Therefore, by proxy, I care what happens to John Watson. Besides, if I let anything happen to John, mummy would skin me alive.”

Smiling, I was right. He was here to help. Sherlock still wasn’t convinced. “Why are you here?” he barked.

“To find out if what I suspected for all these years was true, and if it is, to offer an olive branch and a life line.”

All these years? What else did he know?

I seriously don't completely understand why I did what I did next. Maybe to prove what Mycroft suspected was really wrong. Maybe to prove that I wasn’t damn invincible after all. But in retrospect, I really think I did it as an act of faith. A proof of faith. I needed Mycroft to see for himself. To realize that this was all too real. I needed to know he _wouldn’t_ take me away to some _lab_. I _needed_ to know that. Best that I find out one way or the other. I grabbed the sharpest paring knife out of the drawer and walked up to them, laid my left palm flat against the table between the brothers. I raised the knife above my head and thrust it straight through my hand. I felt a crunch. Fuck! That really hurt like god damn hell

"Are you fucking crazy?" yelled Sherlock and jumped up, chair banging to the floor as it fell behind him. He stared, eyes wide, at my hand pinned to the table. I yanked the knife out with a grunt and blood pooled on the table surrounding my hand like lake around an island. Mycroft sat shocked. No, the pompous ass hadn’t expected that. I was swearing as I smeared my hand around the table like poster paint. Tears sprang from my eyes. Sherlock quickly grabbed a dish towel and bound it around my hand.

"What were you trying to prove?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm a god?" I giggled between curses, then I felt the familiar spongy tingle in my hand and removed the towel and wiped it off to show them what I’d really hoped would not happen. It was like a stop action film jumping slide by slide before our eyes: skin drew together, bonded, healed to a red puckered scar. I turned it over so they could seen the same on my palm. "Faster each time," I said.

"My, god," whispered Mycroft as he snatched my hand in his, turning it over, fascinated.

“Yes,” I said with a hysterical giggle. He looked up at me with the oddest expression. Disbelief. Pity. Awe. All three washed over his face. Me, I'm captivated by the texture of his hand in mine. I licked my lips.

Sherlock cleared his throat and stepped between us.

Mycroft dropped my hand; it was like he suddenly couldn't get far enough away from me.

"I do think I have overstayed," he said, and Sherlock nodded.

“What about Lestrade?” I asked. “You know more. Tell us.”

“Yes, _what about Lestrade_?” Mycroft sucked in a breath. “Tread lightly. He could become your best ally or your worst enemy.”

Concern formed on his brow as Mycroft took his leave. We listened for his steps down the stairs.

"What happened with Mycroft?" Sherlock finally asked. He stared at me, perplexed. "You were holding his hand like some teenager in love."

How to explain? I struggled. Then I had it--a way that he’d understand.

"You have the Mind Palace. The way you’ve described it to me in the past, you use it as a method of loci or a sort of way to use mnemonic devices. I’m not exactly like that but sometimes the way I feel things, they have a memory," I said, struggling for the right words. "Like how I recall numbers exactly or a song after I've heard only once. It’s tactile. I remember them. As a texture, as a taste of colors. I don't forget. Same with people. I don’t put them in rooms in my head, instead I associate them with a touch or a taste. I don't mean anything sexual... it's...since the accident...it seems to have heightened. A lot. So when I touched him as I was healing..."

"Incredible, but I’d rather you never had that experience again with my brother."

"Yeah, I’ll try to avoid that at all costs in the future. But well, it also seemed to have happened not just when I healed. This is awkward...”

“Yes, I noticed...during intercourse.”

My face grew hot and so did his.

“Want to test it again?” he asked, eyes dusky and voice even deeper than normal.

Call me greedy. My mouth found his, and I moaned as his tongue did those torrid, nerve blinding ministrations.

Toby howled in the other room.

But despite Sherlock's warm body pressed next to mine that night, I didn't sleep much at all.


	9. In a Rose Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The secret of the Rose is revealed! 
> 
> Thank you to Mrbotanyb, who stepped forward and volunteered to beta for me, and did an incredible feat of finding the errors I overlook.

At work, and it was Wednesday, hump day. 

The day was slow. I called the hospital to ask about the shooting victim brought into emergency. The receptionist got all hard-ass and wouldn't give me any information, then I heard a muffled voice in the background say "...orders state not to disturb Mr. Moran..." 

I called back an hour later and said I had a  _ delivery _ for Moran. They gave me his room number and extension with instructions that I get the flowers up to Sebastian Moran in the next two hours—they were discharging him.

I called Sherlock to tell him, and he admitted he'd already been to the hospital — and managed to get by the nurses station even though no visitors were allowed in Moran’s room. Unfortunately, Moran wasn’t  _ in  _ his room.

I fingered the card with the binary message in my pocket. Going over to the Lestrades’ to get answers seemed my best option, and taking the card personally was the  _ least _ I could do after all the Lestrades have done for me.

I told Sherlock my decision, and of course he wanted to come. But some things you’ve got to investigate and face for yourself. I needed answers. I felt this was what I needed to do. Some things, I just  _ felt  _ them. Sherlock was always saying I was overly romantic.

Mrs. Hudson watched over the top of her glasses at me as I hung up the phone and cleared her throat. She’d been listening. 

"Since Anderson's still at lunch and there’s nothing to do, I can take the deliveries,” I told her, and she narrowed her eyes at me. 

“Don’t think for a moment I don’t know what you’re up to. I worry about you. I could just as easily hand deliver the card to Emma Lestrade.”

“I need to talk to Dr. Lestrade. It’s important,” I said. 

She knew there was no point in giving me a long lecture. "Fine, we're slow. Take your time, but be careful.” Then she reached for the van keys off the peg on the back room wall.

"I'll be back in time to help out with transplanting the mums," I said. I opened the showroom cooler, and a flash of cold air blasted me as I picked out a rose bowl from the glass shelf. Mrs. H frowned as I picked up a blank get well card and envelope. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said. I loved her, always thinking of others. So I loaded up Long Tall Sally with a couple of other deliveries and her sliding door groaned and moaned as I apprehensively slammed it shut. This was the first time I’d driven since the accident, and I wasn’t exactly thrilled about that or about meeting Lestrade, but what most weighed on my mind was what had prompted me to pick up that rose and blank card. The  _ other  _ stop I planned to make. 

_ At the hospital _ . Maybe I’ll be more lucky (or unlucky) than Sherlock and find Moran in his room.

I didn't know why, but I had to face this nagging voice inside my head I'd had since I got up this morning, and that man being discharged early was the only person who could tell me what I was.

Sally's driver's door creaked open; I climbed onto her sun-bleached bucket seat. I placed the rose bowl on her floor next me, sloshing the water around. Fuck, my fingers had a hard time finding the key. When she started, the old girl was shaking as much as I was. You’d think that after all the insane chases with Sherlock that I wouldn’t get this much of an adrenaline rush, but I still did.

Okay, so maybe I was being as stupid as Sherlock by confronting “my assailant” alone, especially since it was just a few days ago that the man tried to gut me like a fish. I accused Sherlock for years of being afflicted with the “I'm Superman and I'm invincible” syndrome and irony of all ironies, look at me now! Seriously though. It was safer this way. For Sherlock. I heal—he can't. Yesterday was too close. I can't let him take anymore risks. Better that I take them, especially since it looks like for me it’s really not a risk anymore.

Sherlock has always taken too many risks. He scares me when he acts like his life is something to throw away. 

Deliveries went fast and gave me less time to dwell on my situation. My last stop before the hospital was a mixed bouquet on Maple Street. I knew the house: large white Victorian home with moss-green trim and geometric arborvitae hedges lined up like clowns in a circus along the porch. I drove by it often, always wondering why someone would paint a front door chartreuse. I rang the doorbell—from the thumping and bumping I heard inside, I figured I was going find out why momentarily. 

Her over-bleached honey blonde hair was piled up on her head in a hive. The solid mass of hairspray, bobby pins and ratted snarls reminded me of the topiary in the front of her house and the color of her house dress was a faded version of the front door. The moment she saw the bouquet in my hand, her thick eyeliner turned into a flowing black river of tears, forming gorges in the bright red rouge that was caked on her cheeks. 

"It's my birthday, and I thought my son didn't remember," she sobbed as I handed her the flowers. She sniffed them and sneezed, "Thank you." She shut the door, and I walked back to the van. 

I loved delivering.

As I parked in the hospital visitors' lot, I rehearsed in my head what I'd do—what I'd say. I flipped open the glove compartment, taking out a pen. Carefully printed on the blank envelope: 

_ Sebastian Moran _

_ Rm 304 _

_ Morrison Hosp  _

 

I picked up the rose bowl off the floor, then started for the entrance.

I pushed the revolving door with my shoulder and walked straight past the visitor's desk where I usually leave deliveries. I waved at Mrs. Eva Archer, the prim gray-haired volunteer at the desk.

"Taking the flowers straight up to the room," I said. "Going to be discharged right away and don't want to miss him."

As the elevator door closed, I practiced Dr. Deal's breathing technique. Yeah, do a little self-hypnosis. One, two, three...in through the nose, out through the mouth. Hmm, funny, wasn't that the same technique Sherlock used to relax? and push? God, no time for horny now—man of steel must deliver decapitated rose floating in bowl of water to unknown assailant. The elevator swished open, and I smiled wide when I saw my buddy, Big Bernice, behind the nurses' station. Must be she's on the day shift now. 

She grinned right back and pointed her clipboard at me, "Hello there. You're looking dandy and well enough to be making deliveries, I see." I held up the rose bowl. “Much better than the last time I saw you.” 

"I feel _ a lot _ better. It’s a slow day at the shop, so I thought I'd bring it up personally and waste even more time," I lied.

“Nice seeing you again. Give my love to that handsome boyfriend," she winked.

"See you later, Bernice." I started toward room 304. The door was shut. I opened it slowly, cautiously walking in, closing the door silently behind. He was sitting up in bed, dressed. 

"I've been expecting you," he said dispassionately, straightening his tie. "Your lover was here earlier and very persistent. He’s a real prick. I hid in the bathroom for a solid hour. He doesn’t give up...I bet that’s what you like about him."

He knew about Sherlock. And me. My mouth opened to speak—of course the fucker lied to me about not seeing Moran. What’s new?

"I told him he really shouldn't scream so loud. That deep voice carries right into the backyard."

I flinched. He'd heard. How? He was in the hospital. Who was this guy?

"Intercourse with your souped-up senses releases that charged tension. From the sounds coming from Holmes, it kind of bleeds out into other people like an electrical current." He laughed.

I wanted to wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze it until his eyes popped out. “Stay away from him. Stay away from me. And stay out of our personal business.”

"But you are my business," he said slowly. "What you think, what you feel, _ and _ what you do. I knew you would come here to see me. You're just like your persistent, inquisitive boyfriend."

“So, you’re just walking out. No police charges. How did you manage that?” He should be in handcuffs, not up dressed like he’s going out for dinner and cocktails.

"They've been taken care of," he said. I placed the rose bowl on the cheap plywood dresser. 

"For me?" he asked. "A rose does seem appropriate." His eyes picked me apart—steel-blue, unforgiving, twisting the blade. He’d observed my pain in that parking lot like I was a fly trapped in a web. I stared at him right back in the same unforgiving manner. It was like a contest—who would blink. This monstrous fear filled me, but damned if I’d let him see it. Ever. 

"Why?" I asked.

He sat forward on the very edge of the sanitized hospital bed, and his lips curled into a whisper of a smile. "I should ask you why. Why do some live, why do some die? You want to know why I stabbed you? Because that's what I do. You were a just a job to be done. In your case, a test."

"To see if I'd die?" I asked. “That hardly a test.”

"You’re right. We already believed you wouldn't; I just confirmed it. Your car accident indicated that too. It was more of a litmus test for pain and your reaction to pain."

"You fucking stabbed me and sliced me open, you cunt! What idiot needs to test someone to see if they’ll react to that? You are a sadistic freak." 

"You don’t understand. You, John Watson, are an unusual creature," he said. "I’ll let you in on a secret: That’s why you came. To find out what you are. I’ll tell you. There are a select few who heal like you—yet  _ they _ feel no pain. Nothing. Pain would be rapture to them. Once upon a time there was man like them, but he felt pain. And with that pain came...other gifts. Over the years we've watched and waited for someone else like him. You might be the one." 

He stared at me, waiting for a response, but I didn’t answer. I sincerely hoped this was a line of bullshit. 

"Don’t ever ask me for directions ever again," I bit back. He laughed and held his side. I guess he wasn’t one of the select few.

"And I’ll also give you this advice: Don’t go into any other doors without knowing what you’re entering. My society isn't the only organization that has an interest in you. Be thankful all I did was cut you up a bit. It could be worse...you could be at the mercy of men who would cut you  _ apart _ piece by piece and put you back together just because they can." He moved to the edge of the bed, closer to me. "You don't understand yet what you are—what you are capable of. What you can  _ do _ . Each time you heal, you heal faster. I'm right. I see it in your eyes. You have scars now. Soon you won't even have those. You have an inner strength, but your bravado doesn’t fool me in the least. You are terrified deep down, yet you still came."  He paused. “Tread carefully.”

I needed to take his advice. Leave this room. Get as far away from him as I could. 

"I wonder...what about someone else? Could you heal them? Look what you did with Holmes last night. I bet you never had sex like that before in your life...and what did he see? I asked him. He wouldn’t tell me. But what he didn’t say told me more. What else can you do? Other people want to know. People more powerful and dangerous than you could ever fathom. For example, it would have been more serious in that parking lot if I hadn’t been there to take the bullet." 

Sherlock. My stomach clenched.

"He shot at Sherlock to see if I'd heal him?"  Bile crept into my mouth. Sherlock's life was almost forfeited for a fucking test? 

"I must say that I was curious what the outcome would be,"  he said,  "but it’s too soon. Even if you could heal someone else at some point, I don't think you could yet. You’re not up to your full potential. I may be a killer, but I don't kill wastefully, and although your boyfriend is a fucking shit, he’s still easy on the eyes. And he’s clever. He could be useful."

"I don't understand any of this," I said. "I'm nobody."

"You understand," he said. "You just haven’t realized. Take my hand," he ordered. He held his hand out to me. What could he possibly do to me in this room that's any more horrible than what's been done to me already? I haltingly grasped his hand. 

"What do you feel?" he asked.

A surge of tingles and points of light filtered through me. I was infused with thoughts and images and textures and tastes that weren’t my own.

"You want me to...take you...somewhere. I see the place. I know it," I said. Images mingled to an inner calm. I let go of his hand. "You won't hurt me. Not today."

"Very good," he said. "I was right about you." He stood up. He was much taller than me. Not thin nor muscular, but his body radiated a fierce energy, jolting my senses. I reeled back, and I was getting this without even touching his hand.

“Interesting. Sensitive still afterwards, too. Shall we?”

"I'll take you to Lestrade's then," I said a bit shaken but sure.

We walked right out of the hospital. No signing insurance or release forms. No wheelchair. Just walked out. The calm I'd felt was replaced with uncertainty—my heart palpitated irregularly, mimicking my feet's hesitant gate. Walking to the van, I was scared shitless, but I didn’t let the fucker see it. 

Two steps behind, the clomp of his hard hollow steps vibrated up through my legs. I didn't look back. Didn't have to—his energy seethed into me like I was some kind of cosmic sponge.

Eye of the storm. That was what it was like in the van when we both ducked in. The hairs on my body standing up, electrical charges zapped me; the air ionized. 

"You know Lestrade," I said.

"We're acquainted." 

I drove through town on automatic. A sadness filled me, thinking that all that I might feel for Sherlock might only be the result of that fucking rose thorn—my lust and hunger for him just an overactive sensory drive, then I thought of the past, all our time together. No, my mind persisted, what we have is real.  _ We are real _ . I find that I’ve become the danger in his life not the life in his danger. What irony. Every moment I am near him, he is a target. And this other group or what ever cult they were, they were watching us. Following us. Listening to us. I think this was how Daniel Camden, the school master, felt: stalked and cornered. At least he only had to worry about himself. Me, I had to worry about Sherlock. And the whole world knew we were involved now—at least anyone standing within shouting distance from 221b.

As we started down the back country roads, how vulnerable I was no longer mattered. Sure, I could feel physical pain—but what was physical pain next the anguish of seeing pain inflicted on someone I loved? Maybe I should be like Camden—alone.

I wound around into the Lestrade driveway. I hadn't looked at my passenger, the assailant, once on the drive over. I knew he'd been studying me the whole way. I turned my head and acknowledged him. 

"We have company," he said, nodding at Sherlock's Cutlass parked by the house. I told him I was coming alone. Of course he’s here.

Suddenly, there was a hell of a lot more at stake than just my sorry ass. The wooden screen door opened. Sherlock and Lestrade stepped out with Glenda behind. I panicked and threw the van into reverse and stepped on the gas. Moran put his hand over mine, stopping me. No backing out now.

"I won't hurt your friend..." he said, "much." Then he winked as he got out of the van. 

No. He’s not here to harm anyone. Just to find out.

I wasn't sure whether Sherlock wanted to hug or crush me senseless when he saw Moran. Lestrade and Moran nodded to each other—most likely a silent, secret elite signal. I'd read too many books on conspiracy theories. During the last few weeks, I'd gained a new appreciation for them. 

Sherlock wore his frayed old khaki shorts and a white Nirvana t-shirt. Unshaven and hair a mass of curls, his eyes assessed Moran, then me. 

"You're fucking crazy getting into a car with him. Don’t ever call  _ me _ the madman again." 

"A van, not a car," I corrected. “And you still are the madman. You look like an escaped member from a lunatic asylum.” Like it fucking matters, but I just wanted to argue. His cheeks were flushed.  Our eyes locked.  _ Twitch.  _ That's  _ my  _ nose instead of his. Moran was right about my hormones in overdrive. Panting over Sherlock right now was so fucking out of place.

"Do you have the card?" asked Lestrade, bringing me back from a particularly good fantasy where Sherlock flicks his tongue in that way he has.

"Um, yes. But I think you need to answer some questions for me before I hand it over," I said. 

Sherlock moved closer to me, standing protectively beside me, leaning his shoulder into mine. 

Not helping.

"The message is sentimental, not a secret code," Lestrade answered. 

I reached into my back pocket and started to hand to him, and I placed my thumb on top of the bloody imprint. It wasn't mine.

“Took you long enough to notice that,” Sherlock murmured. “Sometimes you’re a bit slow.”

I saw the way Glenda's eyes flashed at it.  _ No, not sentimental. _

"I think we should take this little discussion to the garden, don't you Dr. Lestrade?" Moran suggested. Lestrade tipped his head and began walking toward the direction of the rose garden.

Sherlock observed me carefully as we poked our way down the overgrown path. He spent half his time making sure I was fine and the other half watching Glenda. Today she resembled a sultry wood nymph. If I didn't know Sherlock had no proclivity toward women, I'd have been jealous.  As we neared the inner garden, the roses' sweet fragrance swept over us, the scent nauseating and overpowering. Like a drug. As we passed the threshold, my vision blurred and all coordination left me. Sherlock reached out to me, but Lestrade held him back. For some reason, Sherlock let him.

The climbing roses trailed along the ground and up lattice trellises. They bloomed in every corner of the garden, the blood-red blossoms jetted with bright orange stamens and pistils. The fragrance was heady but no longer incapacitating. A pressure built and pulsed in back of my brain which was not entirely unpleasant. The heavy scent flooded and spread from one lobe of my cerebrum to another. Amazing.

Sherlock was equally enraptured by the place. Each of us fell under its spell, even the emotionless Moran, silenced by its unearthly delights. As I brushed past a tendril of one of the thorny vines, I spied a tiny movement. In this dreamlike place, I could almost believe these roses were human, thinking, feeling, moving. 

There. 

Again. 

From the corner of my eye the vine reached for me. I looked at Sherlock; unusual, he hadn't noticed. I stood still and slowly waved my left hand in front of a thorny offshoot. Yes, it moved toward my hand ever so slightly. I brushed my hand by it again, and the same happened. Sherlock looked at me oddly. He didn't see it. Neither did Moran who cast a questioning glance at me, but Glenda and Lestrade both watched intently. They saw.

I pushed the experiment further, passing my hand near the bramble a third time. The briar caught my knuckle, leaving a bloody, beaded scratch. The branch reacted. Even Sherlock and Moran noticed. The tendril curled as if in a swoon. I found myself feeling much the same. A biting heat swept through me as Sherlock grasped my elbow. From him came this intoxicating ambrosia that aroused me as much as the sensual touch of his hand. My cheeks burned and my cock thickened. The image of me throwing Sherlock down in the dirt and fucking him right in front of them all came to me vividly; then I recovered. I bitterly remembered the roses' intoxicating bite. 

I felt naked; I felt exposed, and I felt angry that this “thing” had toyed with my emotions. I was no longer sure if the lust I felt for Sherlock was real or induced by some aphrodisiac from this anthropomorphic rose. I loved him, I always had, but I don’t recall ever wanting him. Not like I did at this moment.   


A mixture of light and dark spun around me like serpents. Voices from beyond me that I couldn't comprehend. 

\---------------------------

I opened my eyes, and Sherlock was near me, hand in my hair, saying my name. I saw an old Steinway piano with cracked varnish and yellowed sheet music scattered on its bench. An old wing-back chair sat near where I lay. Battered throw rugs like a crazy patchwork covered the worn hardwood floors. The pillow behind my head was lumpy and the blanket on me musty. I was inside the Lestrade home sprawled on their couch, recalling a garden, roses and my lust.

"He's awake," Sherlock announced. 

I sat up, cautiously stretching my legs to the floor. Sherlock moved protectively next to me, and I scooted away a bit.

"What time is it?" I asked, rubbing my wrist. 

"About four," answered Glenda, sitting down near me in the wing back chair. "Not unusual for your first time in the garden since your exposure to Mica."

"Mica?" I said. 

"Yes, the name of the rose is  _ Minuo Micamundus.  _ We prefer the shortened version Mica," she said. Lestrade and Moran came into the room. 

"You’re like me," I said, looking to Glenda then to Lestrade.

"Yes," Lestrade answered, "we are."

I needed out of here. The roses' effect filtered even into this house—the furniture, the people within. The need to know what I am became unimportant. All I could think of was false lust and hope. I hated the place, and the two that made me this  _ thing _ . I knew now it's not the rose that's human; it's me that's inhuman. 

"I need to get back to work. I should have been back a long time ago. My boss is probably wondering," I said.

"Yes, she was," said Glenda. "She called not long ago. I explained to her that you weren't feeling well. Sherlock talked to her."

I nodded. Why be polite? I just stood up wobbly, but Sherlock was there. 

"I'm leaving. Now," I stated flatly and walked to the front door.

"You sure you should drive?" Sherlock asked.

"I'll be fine," I said. "Follow me to work, and we'll drop off the van, then go home." 

Home. Hell, where the fuck was that anymore?

\-----------------------------------

We sat in the living room with me mindlessly watching  _ Futurama _ while eating chili dogs with extra onions and munching Doritos. I popped the cap off a Miller Lite and took a gulp to chase the nasty nacho aftertaste from my mouth.  What else could I do to be less appealing?

Maybe fart. Belch.

Pick my nose.

Damn. The more I thought about what Sebastian Moran implied, the more it made sense. I did begin to find Sherlock uncommonly hot right after my accident. In the rose garden, he was the proverbial forbidden fruit. Shit. Even now as he swallowed his beer, his neck looked like it could use a few choice nibbles. He wasn't safe--from me or any unknown assailants. 

I took another bite of the chili dog. I don't usually like onions on them, and these stink like hell, making my eyes water and my nose run—hopefully a real turn-off for Sherlock.

 

I wondered: If two people eat the same gross food, does the one gross food cancel the other gross food out? Or is it sort of like when you multiply two negatives, they equal a positive? 

one Bermuda onion ✕ another Bermuda onion = hot sex.

I should have picked a less phallic food for dinner. Shit, seeing him eat a hotdog. And now he's intentionally sliding it in and out…

Fuck. 

"Have some more Doritos, Sherlock." I spun around, crunching the chip bag. Stupid fucking hard on. I took a swig of beer, swallowed some air and tried to belch really loud, but it came out pathetic. I could tell from the half smile Sherlock gave me that he thought I was cute. He snaked his hand onto my crotch and pressed firmly. I moaned. Shit, so much for trying to resist. Looked like I'd blown off another band practice tonight. Not even pungent, eye-burning onions could save Sherlock from me now. My mouth clamped on to his, and I threw all my weight against him, pinning him into the couch. 

Mmm, two negatives…

I'd wondered what it would be like to feel him again. I’d gone easy on him after I’d fucked him. Resorted to incredible oral sex, wanking and a bit of frottage. I whispered to him, "I wanna fuck you," and he groaned low, deep down in the back of his throat. I licked his ear, bit his neck then sat up, grabbing his arms and pulling him to the bedroom. We undressed each other. Off flew my t-shirt. I unzipped his khakis and reached in, jerking his cock. He played with my ass, kneading it with his fingers. He slid his hands down my pants. I pushed him back onto the bed and kicked off my jeans, twisted at my feet. Sherlock was kicking off his shorts and then slipping his t-shirt over his head. He got on his hands and knees on the bed as I reached for the lube on the night table.

He said, "Fuck me now,"  in an urgent, dry, raspy baritone, and my stomach dropped out. His thighs trembled. His perfect shoulders aligned. Sherlock looked obscenely delicious. I positioned myself behind him. There was something so base and animalistic seeing him like that—I felt like I'd come right then. 

White and blue sparks shot through my brain as I my hands clawed his waist. I stopped and wondered, was this what Sherlock wanted, or what he thought  _ I _ wanted? 

What  _ did  _ I want?

I knew I wanted Sherlock. I dropped the lube to the mattress, and Sherlock gave me a puzzled frown. Both my hands slid up past his waist, across his shoulder blades. I bent over his back, hugging my arms around his shoulders and pulled him upright against me. He sat on his heels, and I molded myself to him. My chest safe against the line of his back, my hips and cock snug against his ass.

"Fuck me?" Sherlock asked. "Aren't you going to fuck me?"

My mouth kissed his earlobe, and I answered, "No, I'm not going to fuck you, Sherlock. I'm going to make love to you." He turned around, facing me, kissing my mouth. He had corn chips in his teeth, and I didn't care. Nacho cheese, onions and beer were secondary. I rolled on top of him, my cock slid against his. Skin to skin. And I sighed. 

I really do love him.


	10. Sandpaper Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning on this chapter for non-con for unwanted frottage. I put the rape/non con warning up to make sure no one bumps into it unexpectedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big shout out and thanks to MrBotanyB for the careful and insightful beta she's doing for me. I appreciate it, and the suggestions and points made are spot on. Gives her a bow.

Last night I dreamt about the roses. They spoke— they warned me. I tried to recall those thorny harbingers as I transplanted the mum seedlings. I’d shucked off my t-shirt an hour ago. Sweat streamed in salty rivers down my back and bare chest as I meticulously separated the thousands of toothpick-sized sprouts and planted them one per cell. The greenhouse roof vents were flung wide open and the large inset wall fans roared, blasting over the flats of recent cuttings and seedlings I'd toiled over: a hundred-plus trays of them, all precisely lined up on the clay-topped benches. A hundred-plus degrees in this hothouse, it felt like, and even hotter where I labored in the last cramped aisle of the very last greenhouse. Hot, sticky air. I had only a few feet to move in between the potting bench and the glass side walls. I stretched back carefully, stopping my hand within an inch of the glass. 

Not even ten o'clock; it would be unbearable by noon. I wiped a bead of sweat off the end of my nose with the back of my hand and filled another flat from the mix of perlite, compost and peat that was piled high on the old cement and oak potting bench. I leveled the mixture off with a swipe from the back of my arm. The potting mix stuck to my sweat and hairs. I brushed off the dirt and sweat on the leg of my jeans.

I thought about Sherlock.

I clicked off reasons why I shouldn't tell him how I feel, but finally I admitted to myself that it was one part concern for his safety and one part self-preservation. After last night, I knew what I felt for Sherlock was real, lust and all. I knew I loved the hard parts of him as well as the beautiful. That realization was as scary as the shit I'd been through the last weeks.

As Sherlock smoothed my hair and spooned against me last night, I almost told him the depth of what I felt. My mouth couldn't untangle the reasons knotted inside my jumbled head. Reflecting back, I realized that I was afraid for him. I looked into his emerald eyes, afraid he'd say he loved me again and even more afraid he wouldn't. 

I finished another flat of mums and turned to get the next when I had one of those instinctive “ _ someone is watching me”  _ creeped-out sensations. Last night's dream flooded back, and there he stood at the end of the aisle... the man who shot at Sherlock in the parking lot.

In one flash, I _ knew. _ I was being crushed from the inside out. Lights, emotion, texture and utter helplessness. Not one morsel of control. I clutched the bench, fighting off the urge to start hyperventilating. Every detail from the hypnosis I suddenly recalled. I even heard Dr. Deal counting backward _ — three, two, one. _

_ And I remembered this time. _

The revelation was agony. Each detail a glass prism that cut through me. No longer words in Sherlock's notebook but moments in time. A living experience. Real. I recognized that man in front of me from my altered state where he had stood in the early morning fog near the dunes of Lake Michigan. Just like sharp edge that had cut through the mist in my trance, he stepped closer, blocking the narrow aisle as I remembered him blocking my way before, in another time and place. It all seemed to be coming true. Oh, so true. 

The minister— Camden's assailant. 

The stalker— The shooter in the parking lot.

The same person. He was the same man!

“Nice to finally meet you,” he said. “The name's  _ Moriarty, James Moriarty _ !" he giggled.

He picked up a handful of potting soil, then let it sift through his thin fingers, eyes burning through me.

I cursed his name and he gave me the most hideously wicked smile.

"I see you’ve worked it all out. Yes, I’ve had many names over my lifetime. So many names. As has Camden or should I say,  _ Dr. Gregory Lestrade _ . Many experiences, but none as wretched as Lestrade's’. I asked him once what is it was like to be buried alive," he said, voice filled with disappointment. “He never told me. The bastard hit me instead. Such a poor sport. Perhaps if I buried you alive, you could enlighten me?”

The overload of stimuli fired my fight-or-flight instinct. I was cornered. No way out. I rejected the desire to run through the glass side wall. I don't like to fight, but I can take care of myself if I damned well have to: I've been forced to brawl with drunks in bars on more than one occasion, but most often the real knuckle-busting happens with Sherlock in one of his crazy crime investigations. I quickly measured Moriarty up. He wasn’t at all intimidating. No, it was the man standing behind Moriarty that caught my attention. He was larger than me by at least two heads and built like most of the bouncers who can kick the asses of men twice my size one-handed. 

I was good at fighting dirty, and if I got in the first shot and scrambled over the benches, I might have a chance. Even then I'd need luck on my side. 

"What do you want?" I asked, stepping back and hoping this was only about intimidation.

"Want, what  _ do _ I want," he mocked. Taking another handful of the dirt and rubbing it in his hand, he laughed. "Being planted cold in the ground turned Lestrade old. Yes, our Dr. Lestrade was young before I shoveled that sandy soil on top of him. What  _ aged  _ him? I wonder. Was it the dirt or the oppressive darkness six feet under? Sad, really. It was months before his sister Emma  found the spot in the woods where I buried him. I wonder what it was like for Camden?  Imagine— but you wouldn't have to if I do the same to you!"

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Hmm. I’d rather fuck  _ you _ . Or that Sherlock Holmes fellow. He’s beautiful. I love the way he screams when he comes.”

“You sick fuck!”

"And he takes you to such nice places! Morgues, police stations! He even took you to a nudist colony. Such excitement! And that hypnotist. Reliving experiences can be frightfully boring sometimes, but not in your case! Holmes took excellent notes and the audio recording was superb," he said.

He’d been inside 221b and the psychiatrist’s office. God. The thought angered me— this man inside, rummaging through Sherlock's desk by the fireplace. Watching Sherlock. Stalking us.

He inched closer to me. I had to get around him and his big bodyguard somehow.

"You could feel what Lestrade went through. What did it feel like, John? Lungs burning, weight of the earth crushing down on you, choking you. Lestrade couldn't feel the pain, but you could. For Lestrade it merely the mental torture.”

He leaned in next to me, and whispered in my ear. “You can tell me, John. I won’t tell. What was it like being buried alive?"    


I grabbed his shirt and shook him. “Shut up!” I said, and he laughed in my face. I bit my lip, tasting blood. My blood, I thought. Who the fuck am I? Watson? Camden? Lestrade? All mixed together, but the same. And who was this Moriarty? He couldn’t be real! I counted mentally backward, hoping I was under hypnosis again and would wake up from it all.

"I don’t know what you are," I said, finding my voice. "Not fucking human, that’s for sure, but I do know that you’re alive, and if you’re alive, you can be killed. So help me, if you harm one hair on Sherlock’s head, I will kill you."

"You’ll find I’m not easy to kill. I don't feel pain. Not physical pain. It's sad not to feel. Life is flat. That's why I watching pain is like music to me. Like a lost melody I’ve found for an instant. I’d love to hear a melody. Sing for me now, please?" He was quick, grabbing my wrist before I had a chance to get away. He twisted it. The pain was nothing; that, I could stand. What I couldn't stand was the contact of his evil seeping into my pores. I thought I would vomit from its stench. I surprised him and pivoted, turning and twisting his arm around and back. I heard a snap. 

In a blink, Moriarty’s bodyguard had his bicep snaked around me with his forearm in a “V” snug around my neck. He meant to render me unconscious and fast. No way I was letting him take me out of here to parts unknown. I jammed my chin down into his elbow and yelled. 

_ Fuck, _ I thought,  _ shut up— they'll hear; they'll come.  _ Shit, Anderson and Mrs. H were in the front. If they helped me, what would this sick fuck do to them? Sure, he could hurt me, but I'd heal. He wouldn’t think twice about killing them.

Adrenaline pumped through me, and it hurt like hell, but at least he was squeezing my jaw, not my neck. I bit him hard, teeth sinking deep into the flesh of his forearm. I was pre-med after all and knew anatomy. I managed to latch hold of his radial artery. The soil on the potting bench absorbed his blood as it poured from the wound. Then one good, solid 220-degree turn and I was free!

I hit Moriarty next. My knuckles burned when they struck his teeth. His head snapped back. I spun and twisted in an effort to get around him and down the aisle, then jump the bench. I took a parting swing, and this time aimed for Moriarty’s nose. I felt a sickening crack as my fist landed. 

Before I could start down the aisle, the guard recovered and his hand wrenched my wrist around, popping my shoulder. Moriarty stood back and spat out his blood on my chest while I struggled, twisting around. His bodyguard was bleeding all over and swearing, but wedged my arm up into the middle of my back, holding me in place like pinned insect.

"I could bury you," Moriarty hissed, "but I know what would happen. An experiment loses its appeal after a time. It becomes boring. I need to try something new. What should I do to you? "

How do you get away from someone who feels no pain? I slammed my foot down onto the top of his. Nothing. 

My shoulder throbbed. He laughed, stepping closer. My head reeled from recalling another time when Moriarty pushed himself into Camden. I tried the same trick Camden used many years ago. I swept my leg around the back of the guard’s ankle and threw him off balance. He buckled and recovered, but not before I jerked my knee into Moriarty’s groin as hard as I could. Fuck, the sick bastard's dick was hard! My stomach turned. He smiled, as his thug wrenched my arm up farther.

"Your scars are almost gone," he rasped into my ear, tracing a finger down my bare chest. "Your eyes and body lived through Camden; could you live through another and feel his pain? What about Holmes?"

"You leave him the fuck alone, or I'll chop off your head," I spat.

"You could try. I could cut off yours, but it's such a handsome head," I recoiled as he touched my cheek. He smiled and licked my ear. "Or better, I could take you now, but I'd rather you came to me, to us, on your own. In the end, you'll have no choice." He shoved his cock against me. I swallowed back bile as he ground his erection into my crotch. Then he nodded for his man to let me go, pushing me back onto the cold cement of the potting bench.

He turned and walked away from me. After I caught my breath, I stepped around the corner of the bench, watching over the bedding plants as he left out the side door of the greenhouse, limping. I was shivering cold, then burning hot. I ran out the door after him, but he and the guard were gone. 

Then I bent over and threw up. 

He limped.

Afterward, I wondered why someone invincible was a gimp. 

\---------------------

I wiped my mouth. My hands shook as I pulled my t-shirt over my head and pushed my arms through. I put my head between my knees and stayed that way for a good fifteen minutes before I felt composed enough to go up to the front room and see Anderson and Mrs. H. I could stay in the greenhouse, but it was too fucking hot and too much of a reminder of that sick bastard. 

Then there was Sherlock.

I washed away the blood with the hose. I wouldn't have any choice but to call Sherlock. Not telling him would put him at more risk. That psychopath had already been in 221b. Sherlock already put himself at risk going after him once. If he knows what Moriarty is, Sherlock might be more cautious. That’s a big “might.” My biggest concern was that Moriarty would go after Sherlock to get to me. I was glad Sherlock was up at the university around people today. I called and left a voice message that I’d had an unwelcome visitor at work. 

I thought of just taking off. Packing it all up and leaving. But if I left, I wouldn't be taking Sherlock out of harm's way. That bastard Moriarty. Maybe I  _ didn't _ have a choice. But until I knew what that sick fuck was up to, I wasn't going anywhere. I knew what he did to Lestrade. In the end, if I had to go with him to keep Sherlock or anyone else I cared for safe, I'd do it. But I wasn't walking into Hell with Moriarty unless there was no other way.

Mrs. H stared at me when I walked up the back steps.

"You look like shit," she said. My jaw opened in shock. Mrs. H swore!

"Heat exhaustion. I just threw up out of the side door of house four." 

She scrutinized me. “What exactly happened back there?” I should know better than to try to hide anything from her. She sighed when I shrugged my shoulders.  "Go sit down in my office for a while where it’s air conditioned." 

I smiled thinly at her, then I walked back to her office, closed the door and flopped down into Mrs. H's old oak captain's chair. It wasn't two minutes later when Mrs. H poked her head inside the door, walked up to her desk and sat down on top of it, facing me.

"There's plenty you're not saying," she started. I opened my mouth to speak, but she placed her finger to my lips, hushing me. "Plenty of it Sherlock told me. In this business, you hear people talk too. What's going on between you and Sherlock is your business, but whatever trouble you're in, know that you can talk to me and come to me for help. If you don't want to now, that's fine too. Know that I'm here and I care. I love you both like sons. Don’t forget that." She leaned over to me and hugged me tight and kissed my hair. 

I started to cry. Mrs. H didn't mind me getting her blouse all wet, she just hugged me tighter. Anderson walked in with a wet towel and I was bawling. Shit, Anderson'll never let me live this one down. But instead of making fun of me, he placed the towel on my forehead. 

"If you don't mind, I think I'll rest here a few minutes," I said. They both left quietly and shut the door, leaving me to think about what happened. Even Anderson knew something was seriously wrong.

Whatever this group that Moriarty was in bed with wanted, it wasn't just to experiment on me. After talking to Moran, I knew that the primary motive of whoever paid him was to find out what made me different and why. One jumbo jigsaw puzzle, and no one wanted to share the pieces. Moriarty said that Lestrade aged when he was buried alive; that was a piece of the puzzle as well. 

A grain of sand. Lestrade’s card.

Camden was buried in sand, near the dunes of Lake Michigan. And the soil in the rose garden was sandy. The roses. And recalling those moments under hypnosis made it hard to solve a puzzle with six feet of earth haunting you. The memory of sand in my mouth was almost as bad as feeling that sick bastard rutting up against me. 

I was pretty sure now that Emma and Glenda are one and the same, too. It made sense. I wondered about Sean— he had to be like us too. He must be. He's related to Lestrade. I had a few questions for him tonight. 

I wasn't missing band practice again.

What fucking got to me was how  _ I _ could be part of this mess. All the past questions came back to me. The questions that I'd pushed from my mind over the years. Details I'd known the answer to but didn't want to face. Questions I'd asked my parents, but they'd always evaded. 

My mind struggled to understand how two people who loved me so much could lie to me my whole life. They had many opportunities to tell me the truth. Or maybe it was just that I didn't want to know. Deep inside I’d always known I was adopted. 

Despite knowing it, I rejected it. The parents who raised me were the only ones I ever wanted to know. I was never curious to find my birth parents. It was an insult to the family I lost in that fire, but even before that day, I didn’t want to know. But if I'm going to help myself—or help anyone unfortunate enough to be close to me— I’m going to have to find out who they are.

I was in third grade when I asked Mom the first time. It was my birthday. I brought chocolate cupcakes and vanilla ice cream for my class after lunch. The party was fun. Then came last recess. Carol Arnette, a big hairy man-girl whose mother was the principal's secretary, enjoyed picking on other kids, and I was her target-of-the-week. She pushed me, saying that the man and woman that I lived with weren't my parents. She said she knew because her mom told her—  she'd read it in my student records.

"You don't live with your _ real _ parents,” she said, “because they didn't  _ want  _ you." I called her a liar. It's so fucking degrading, even in the third grade, to have your ass kicked by a girl. She clobbered me in the face and gave me a bloody nose. I couldn't hit her back— maybe she didn't  _ look _ like a girl, but she still was one— so instead I pushed her down in the mud, messing her brand new red and white polka-dot dress. 

We both ended up in the principal's office. When Mom came to pick me up, I told her what Carol Arnette said. Mom got quiet and said, "Sometimes people say mean things because they don't feel good about themselves, because they hurt so much inside." She went inside Principal Moore's office and quietly shut the door. 

That was Mrs. Arnette's last day as secretary for the school.

Three years later I asked again. I had this niggling feeling. Everyone said I looked like my father, but I didn’t see it. This time my science teacher, Mr. Williams, told the class about Gregor Mendel and his peas. Then he gave an example of how blue-eyed parents can't have a brown-eyed child, so I thought that two brown-eyed parents couldn’t have a blue-eyed child. Of course I was wrong, and Mom told me so, but it was the look on her face. I knew then.

I didn't ask again until high school. When I went to get my driver's license, and my mom couldn’t find my birth certificate. Something was up. She was so upset; she cried. You don’t cry because you can’t find a birth certificate. I asked Dad what was really wrong. All he said to me was, "You're my son and always will be." That was that. I knew. He produced my birth certificate— and I put the names on it into a separate compartment in my mind. I didn't think about much again until three days after they died, at the funeral. A friend of the family said I might want to find them. I said I didn’t.

And I didn’t. 

\-------------------------------------

I didn't want to go back to the house— not until I talked to Sherlock. He came as soon as he heard the voice message.

"Let's go for a ride," I said. Country roads and open windows were what I needed. He sighed and took Center Street straight out of town. I told him I remembered every thing from Dr. Deal's session. I told him about what happened in the greenhouse, who Moriarty was. I told him this man had been inside his apartment. And he knew inside my head. 

"I want you to be careful," I said. "No more chasing after the bad guys."

"I can’t promise that anymore than you can— you got into a car with Moran."

“Van. Or did you delete automobiles along with the solar system?”

"Van or car. Sun or moon. It makes no difference.”

“I’m hungry. I’ll make something for dinner before band practice."  He nodded, let out a long, put-upon, strained breath and took the long way home.

We checked every window, every latch, when we got home. I didn't want to find Moriarty hiding in the house or any other surprises. My guess was that he just picked the locks. Sherlock said they weren’t the best. If we kept the deadbolts on from the inside when home, he wouldn't be able to get in without breaking glass. Sherlock was worried for Mrs. Hudson, so he called Mycroft to get a security system installed.  We checked the basement windows, and I checked the attic. I called Bill to ask him to pick me up tonight; I didn't want Sherlock leaving the house open to another invasion.  _ Just because you're paranoid, don't mean they're not after you... _

We threw together some sandwiches and ate. I was fine until we picked up the plates and Sherlock slipped behind me when I was putting away the dishes. Bill started pounding at the front door at the same time. I jumped. I knew it wasn't Sherlock's touch, or Old Bill‘s knock, but the memory of Moriarty's hands on me that had my brain all fucked up. 

"John," his deep voice reassured me. 

I turned around, kissed his mouth and said, "I know. I'm just edgy." I picked up my guitar by the couch and kissed Sherlock goodbye again, pressing my body into his, hoping to collect some of his good Karma.

"Be sure to bolt the door the moment I leave. I'll call as soon as I get to practice and before I leave again." 

He stood with his hands in his pockets. He wanted to come, but he’d get bored and I needed to practice.

"Don't forget," I said. "Bolt it."

He did when I was halfway down the stairs. 

I remembered Moriarty's limp as I got into the car.  

\----------------------------------

We were all set up, and Sean hadn't arrived. I was tuning my guitar to Bill's as Sean pulled in, his car lights blinding every one of us. 

"Fucking ass-wipe," Smith swore, tripping over his amp cord. "Turn off the fucking headlights, dumb ass! Hell's fucking Kitchen, don't you have any sense?" He yelled as Sean got out of his car.

"Sorry," Sean said. "It won't happen again."

"Better fucking not happen again. I could have been a human swish-kabob on one of these rakes."

"You know, Smith," Jimbo said, "if you took all this shit and put it away, it'd be a lot safer to play in this garage."

"Then where the fuck would I store all this crap?" Smith asked, scratching his crotch with his guitar pick. "I use this stuff all the time. All of you god-damned pansy-asses can just play around a few sharp objects. Dangerous? You don't know dangerous. The only one here that understands dangerous is John, and that’s only because he goes around with that lunatic Holmes. How the hell are we gonna play in a biker bar if you can't even jam with pruning shears?" 

"So you're sayin' your garage is the band's warm up for a gig with the Hell's Angels?" Sean asked, laughing.

"Oh shut the fuck up, you stupid cocksucker, and get me a beer," Smith ordered. "God damned newbie needs to know his place."

I was suddenly getting a new appreciation for Smith's smartass-isms. 

"Get me a beer too," I added. 

Sean opened the rusty old dented fridge in the corner of the garage and reached in for the beer, asking, "Am I allowed one too?"

"Only if you suck my dick later," Smith said. Sean gave him an odd look and pulled out three bottles, hanging on to their necks, clinking them together. 

Sean handed Smith his beer, then handed me mine. Sean twisted off the top and handed it to Smith, then waited for him to take a swig. 

"He's serious, you know," I said. "I hear that his cock big enough to choke a horse." 

Sean sprayed a mouthful of Miller Lite into Smith's face.

"After that, you damn well better be good at giving head," Smith said, wiping the beer off with the back of his hand.

Smith stuck his face into Sean's space and gave one of his up-yours smirks, and Sean kinda laughed and sputtered at the same time and said quietly, "You’re joking, right?" 

I couldn't help myself— what a great opening. I began singing:  _ “I started a joke, which started the whole world crying./ Oh if I'd only seen, that the joke was on me _ .”

Jimbo and Bill picked up on it and began playing along, singing in harmony— " _ Oh no _ \--"

Smith, joining in:  _ “I started to cry, which started the whole world laughing./ Oh, if I'd only seen, that the joke was on me…” _

That's when it happened. Sean sang— his voice lazy and melodic with a slight quaver— hauntingly beautiful. We all continued to play as he continued singing alone. As his last note faded, we fell silent, dumbfounded. 

He was good. Better than good. He was...better than me. Better than any of us. 

Smith cleared his throat. 

"Not bad," I said. "I like it. I guess we can keep him." 

\------------------------------

I texted Sherlock as soon as practice got out. Sean volunteered to drive me home. I'd get a chance to corner him with a few questions, and I’d save him from Smith, who kept pointing at his dick and asking Sean to stay for a while and help him out with his hard-on.  

Not that I didn't enjoy watching Sean getting embarrassed, but the joke was getting old. Plus I think Smith was half serious, especially after he heard Sean’s singing. And the way Sean blushed, I wondered if he was half interested in helping Smith out. We fucked each other over enough in this band without literally fucking each other.

Besides, after my run in with Moriarty, I needed to know more. 

“How old are you?” I asked. “Give me a straight answer.” 

"I’m eighty-nine years old. A little boy in our world, and you’re just a baby.”

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"You don’t remember anything at all about the night of your accident. If you did, you wouldn’t be asking me that." 

"No, why? What should I remember?" I asked, fastening my seatbelt.  "These word games need to stop. Now. I'm tired of guessing, and after today, it's getting too dangerous to be playing fucking mind games."

"Why, what happened today?" He asked, checking his rearview mirror.

"That sick son of a bitch Moriarty cornered me in the greenhouse with one of his goons, threatening to hurt Sherlock."

"Not surprising. He was parked across the street and watched our whole practice from his car. The acoustics sucked. Now he's following us."

"Shit," I said, turning around in my seat to see. 

"Listen, I'd love to tell you everything I know, but my uncle doesn't want me to. He wants  _ you _ to remember it. But shit, he wouldn’t want anything to happen to Holmes. At least I'm living with some protection, but you're really open to this man. He is seriously dangerous." I noticed his knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel tight. He eyes darted, watching me, the road and the rearview mirror as he pulled in front of our place on Baker Street.

"Maybe you better come in," I said.

“He's not going to follow me home. He's going to sit outside and watch your place. But I’ll come up."

"You know what he is, then?" I asked, straining to see where he'd parked as I got out of the car. 

"Yeah, I know.”

I got out of the car and slammed the door.

We waited until we were upstairs before continuing. Sherlock stood waiting for me to come through, must have heard my voice. I didn't even need to knock. Sherlock wasn’t surprised to see Sean either. We took a seat in the living room as Sherlock paced. Sherlock bolted the door behind us as I made my way to the couch and carelessly fell back, dropping my guitar case to the floor, taking in the smooth grace that is Sherlock as he pivoted towards us. 

“You know exactly what he is,” Sherlock said. He raised his arms like a conductor or a dancer, exaggerated, dramatic. “Your uncle was here the other day as well.”

“You’re right," Sean said. "Confession time. We pretty much nosed around all through this place afterwards. Sorry."

"Fuck! Who are you that you think it’s fine to do that?" I shouted. 

"Moriarty was in your house the night of the fire, too."

Sherlock positively puffed up then. For a moment, it looked like he was going to dive into Sean, then he thought better and looked to me for some kind of moral center.

"What gives you the right to keep this from me?" I swallowed. Sandpaper box. That’s what I was living in. Rubbed raw and exposed. If Sherlock wasn’t here, the pain would be oppressive. 

"He's out there. He followed us home," I said finally. "Maybe we should call the police or— I know you don’t want to hear this— your brother."

“The police are idiots.” Sherlock stood looking out the window down to the street below, then stalked the room like a caged tiger. “He’s parked half way down the block under a street lamp,” he said. “I believe it’s time to tell us what you know.”

Sean didn't look at him. Instead he stared at the Sherlock’s skull on this fireplace mantel. 

"I can't," he said finally. Sean chewed at the inside of his cheek as he looked regretfully at us.

That sandpaper rubbed another layer away, and I burst toward the door, ready to pound that motherfucker Moriarty into a bloody mass of bones. Instead, Sherlock sensed what I intended to do. His arms reached around and stopped me before I opened the door. 

“John, no. It won’t do any good. We need a clear plan.”

“God, that’s rich. It’s like a role reversal. I’m the one who usually tells you that.”

“I told you I listen to you.”

“Mycroft it is, then.”

Sherlock frowned and nodded. Reaching for his cell, he called his brother as he walked back toward the large living room window and pulled back the curtain to view the street.

"I can see him from here," he finished and hung up, snapping the curtains shut. "He’s sending some of his men. Regretfully, I expect he’ll come too." 

"He limped away," I said half to myself.

"What?" He read the significance in my voice, crossed the room and sat next to me. The cushion sagged and coaxed us closer. “Who limped?”

"When Moriarty walked away from me, he limped.” I turned to Sean. “If he heals like me, why would Moriarty limp?"

“If it was an injury from before he was transformed?” Sherlock suggested. “Maybe specific injuries don't always heal, or maybe it’s something else altogether." He narrowed his eyes at Sean for an answer.

Sean shook his head. "No. It’s really rare that past wounds and injuries remain. Something's not right," he said. “I don’t recall him ever having a limp.”

“Maybe it’s psychosomatic,” I suggested. 

Sherlock's thigh brushed mine. I smiled and his nose twitched. 

“That’s possible,” Sean said. “But maybe he  _ isn't  _ the same.”

"Of course he’s not the same," I said. “He’s a psychotic murderer bent on world domination.” 

“I mean he’s always tried to alter who he was, become more powerful, god-like.”

“Like I said, bent on world domination.”

Sherlock laughed. “Of course he is! That falls into your definition of the arch-villain.” I snuggled in closer to him. 

I yawned. "Tired..." I whispered, covering my mouth. Sean was a smart man. He got the hint.

“I’ll see myself out.” 

Sherlock bolted the door behind him.  He bounced back. "Too tired?" His lips grazed my temple, humming sweetly against my skin.

Sherlock’s phone chirped. “Ahh. Mycroft’s men are outside, and it seems Moriarty has conveniently left.” 

"Mmm, no," I answered, nudging him down flat on the couch. My chafed body, stung from the day, was healed by Sherlock's soft touch. He soothed the psychic hurt inside as his hands glided against my neck. 

I found my fingers unzipping his jeans. My breath quickened watching his pupils widen in anticipation. He raised his hips and helped me shimmy his jeans down past his knees. I slipped my thumb under the elastic of his briefs, coyly brushing the head of his dick. He shivered as I boldly reached in, pulling his cock out, bending my head down. His hands followed my head—  my lips faltering just a breath from him. My thumbs nervously pressed hard into his hip bones, leaving imprints.

I thought, how difficult could this be to do? I wanted Sherlock in every way he had me. I wanted to make him feel as good has he made me feel.

"I'm more hungry than tired," I whispered, knowing the effect my words would have on him. 

He moaned, "God, John. Please." And I bit my lip then bent in, kissing and licking the length of him, looking up at him, memorizing his color and lines. Damp locks clinging to his forehead. Watching Sherlock's face flush and eyelids flutter incensed me and I teased him more. Blowing him made me feel both powerful and powerless. My tongue tasted salt and musk, darting on the head of his cock. Grasping him, I slid him carefully into my mouth. His cock twitching, I flicked his corona with the tip of my tongue, then slid my mouth up and down a little, infusing the texture of his penis into the contours of my mouth. Every ridge and bump, I loved. God, I wasn't prepared for how wonderful Sherlock would feel— his pulse beating hot inside my mouth. Heat and light sparked through me as I felt the stretch in my jaws, slipping him down deeper into my throat. His fingers found my hair and twisted and pulled. He felt so good— quivering and straining, moaning my name. My cock was rock hard as I was rubbing into Sherlock's leg— rubbing and moaning. 

He watched me. 

I slowly slid him out of my mouth, meeting his eyes. Tightening my jaw, I began a smooth, firm embrace. My lips and throat hugging his beautiful cock, floating up and down from the head to base. I clasped the base of his cock with my hand and swallowed. His thigh muscles tensed; he was so close. I slowed, and he gasped, "Don't stop."

I took him as deep into the back of my throat as I could and he clutched my back and hair. He ground his hips, I met his thrusts as he fucked my mouth, and then he was lost— coming with such intensity that I thought I'd climax with him without his laying one hand on my cock. I swallowed him all, and the whole experience surprised me: how much I wanted him, his seed, the most intimate part of Sherlock. He pulled my hair, willing me to his mouth. He kissed me greedily, tongue hard and urgent. I whimpered into his mouth like a child who wants more candy.

His hand cupped my cock, my stomach did handsprings as he pressed the length of me— God, I wanted out of these jeans. 

"Sherlock..." I murmured against his mouth, willing myself to say the words. "I..."

Four sharp raps on the front door cut me off and brought me out of my bliss.  

“That would be Mycroft.”


	11. Knock, Knock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shout out to mrbotonyb for the amazing beta. Thank you so much for your sound edits and revisions. You are the best!

"My brother ruins everything!" Sherlock said, then swore as he struggled to pull up his jeans. I leaned into him, trying to balance on one foot. “I’d know that umbrella tap anywhere.”

" _Mycroft,_ " I said, mouth muffled against Sherlock’s neck, and I gave it a parting kiss.

Of course it’s Mycroft. It’s not the police or, God forbid, Moriarty. I could imagine him hiding behind the door saying, _“It’s Moriarty and my roving band of axe murderers. Please open your door so we may hack you into pieces…”_

While Sherlock quickly finished fastening his jeans, I reluctantly went to the door. A peep-hole would be handy, but since Sherlock always “knew” who was there, he’d never bothered. I clinked the chain on and braced my body against it. Legs locked, I opened and cautiously peeked out.

Hmm, it _was_ Mycroft and two other gentlemen.

Standing protectively behind me, Sherlock rubbed my shoulders.

"You called," Mycroft said, stepping inside.

The two security men with dark suits and sunglasses loomed behind him. One was a goofy looking character, tall, painfully thin with a butch haircut and big ears. A real-life Barney Fife, sticking his thumbs in his suit pockets as he scowled and listened. All he was missing was the police uniform.

"Moriarty left," Sherlock said, waltzing over to window with a flourish. "No black SUVs on the streets other than _yours_ . No suspicious-looking characters in the neighborhood other than _you_ and your _friends_..."

The men with him were obviously brought for our security. If they worked for Mycroft, their small-town appearance must be a disguise to blend in with the locals. All I heard as I gazed at the two was Andy Griffith whistling his theme song. I needed to stop watching _Nick at Nite_.

I always wondered how security personnel like Barney here identified a suspicious-looking character? What made one person look more suspicious than another? Lurking in bushes? Wearing dark sunglasses at night? Slinging semi-automatic rifles? Yes, these might be indicators. Even more intriguing, could _things_ look suspicious?

Caller: _Please send the police to my house immediately... the hide-a-bed... I think it might be concealing something._

Dispatch: _Officer to 221 Baker Street, resident reports suspicious furniture._

“Well, little brother, I will leave my men to keep watch over you. One shall be out in front and the other at the back of the house. And do let Mrs. Hudson know. We wouldn’t want her to shoot one of these men with that unlicensed handgun she keeps beside her bed.”

“That was her dead husband’s gun,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms.

“Yes, we all know _that_ story.”

“I’ll let Mrs. H know,” I said.

“And what are your names?” I asked Mycroft’s two assistants.

“They don’t have _names_ ,” Sherlock said, “They have _numbers_.”

“They most certainly do have names,” Mycroft snapped. “Barnum and Bailey.”

“Like the circus?” I laughed.

“The joke is old,” said the one who looked like Barney, shooting us an ineffectual snarl.

“To you, maybe," Sherlock smirked "To me, it’s an epiphany! Proof of my brother’s absurd choice of _noms de guerre_.”

“Yes, well, I’ll leave my two men to watch over you from outside. I’ll take the liberty of speaking to Mrs. Hudson before departing.”

“Thank you for this, Mycroft,” I said, since I damn well knew Sherlock wouldn’t.

Mycroft left and Barney or “Barnum” slammed the door, bringing me back to the light. Sherlock bolted the door behind them.

"Well, that was a waste of time," Sherlock said, stepping behind me and fitting his chin into the hollow of my shoulder. He let his index finger trail along the fine hairs on my neck. I shivered. Mmm, our time could have been better spent...

"Maybe we should finish what we started."

“Come here,” he said, mouth mashing into mine. Little sparks and snaps of happiness lit up in my chest as he pulled me closer. We made our way to his couch in the throes of some heavy groping, then decided to move our makeout session into the bedroom.

Knock, knock at the door again.

"Who's there?" Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"Barnum and Bailey!" I laughed.

I almost expected Sherlock to return with “ _Barnum and Bailey who?”_ like this was one of his bad knock, knock jokes from elementary school. Instead the answer came from behind the door:

"Oh, did you forget me already? I’m so heartbroken!"

 _That voice_. My heart didn’t break. It exploded like star.

“Moriarty,” I said.

“ _Little pig, little pig, let me come in_ …”

Sherlock actually started to unbolt the door.

“No. Stop. Not good!”

He ignored me and pushed the bolt aside before I could stop him. The door was ajar. Sure as fuck, Moriarty leaned against the door frame. I threw my body against the door, slamming it shut with a crash.

Sherlock stood transfixed as he stared at the door. He looked terrified. “ _I know him_. From the library. He knows Irene.”

“What?” I said.

“I’ve seen him!” he repeated, reaching for the door again. “He’s alone. Let him in. We can talk to him.”

“No,” I said, grabbing his hand.

“He’s alone. Only one person came up the stairs. We need to speak to him, find out more. Don’t tell me you don’t want to confront him.”

Against my better judgement, I let go of Sherlock’s hand. He unlocked the bolt with a snap and swung the door open.

Moriarty didn't budge. Like a vampire, he needed an invitation.

As he scrutinized Moriarty, Sherlock texted rapidly, probably alerting Mycroft or Mrs. H or both.

“What the fuck do you want?” I asked.

Moriarty, taking that as his invitation, sauntered in and stepped past us, then took a seat at the kitchen table and crossed his legs.

“You, Johnny,” he said, leering at me. “Or you.” His eyes raked over Sherlock from head to toe, and he raised his eyebrows.

After bolting the door again, Sherlock turned to me, but his eyes were trained on Moriarty. Moriarty leered unabashedly at Sherlock’s ass.

“I’m afraid your brother’s little minions met with a bit of an accident...Let’s just say that I huffed and I puffed and I blew their house in. The result was rather messy.”

“I had serious reservations about their skills,” Sherlock said, walking up to him and sitting next to him at the table.

I shook my head.

“Not good?” he asked.

“Yeah. A bit not good. No matter how inept they were, or who they worked for, they’re human. Living, breathing humans who deserve consideration,” I said, sitting opposite to Moriarty at the table. “What did you do?” Sherlock watched me, eyes flicking over to mine. Checking. Assessing. Hiding his distress. I could feel it, but Moriarty couldn’t detect a thing— at least I hoped not.

“Mycroft will be very angry,” Sherlock said to Moriarty. “It’s not good to make Mycroft angry.”

“Mycroft, Shmycroft. He dresses well and does have a modicum of intelligence, but he’s just not my type. Too cold. Unfeeling. A tin man. He’s no fun. But you are, “ he said, leaning into Sherlock’s personal space. “You’re the scarecrow, all brains and heart. You pretend to have no feelings, but all of us in this room know that’s just not true.”

“Despite what I’ve been told, having a heart is not a disadvantage,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, Sherlock. You should have listened to your brother and buried your heart. It’s too late. I’ll burn the heart out of you,” he said. “Light a match. Poof! Not an advantage then! It’s so simple to burn people alive.”

My family flashed before me and fury exploded from every pore as I flung myself at him. The chair, along with a stunned Moriarty, slammed to the floor with me on top of him as I pummeled his face with all the force in my body. Sherlock pulled me off him and Moriarty sat up laughing, teeth bloody.

Sherlock’s iPhone came to life again. He read it and texted back.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have let me in,” he said to Sherlock, spitting blood in his face, “because I’m taking your little friend Watson apart to find out what makes him work. Piece by Piece. Then afterward, you and I are going to have so much fun together!”

“You’re not going to get a chance to touch him or me,” I said. Although they already tingled from healing, my knuckles still burned a bit from smashing his face.

“Oh, but you’re wrong. I will. And you are such a cute... _pet_. Like Doctor Lestrade— such adorable treasure,” he smiled at Sherlock. “Your pet. He bites. He needs a muzzle.”

I gave a disgusted grumble and ground my teeth as Sherlock caught my arm before I flew at him again.

“His temple throbs and his jaw twitches when he’s angry. It’s most attractive on him, don’t you think, _Sherlock_?”

"He's fucking with us," he said to me. “Hitting him serves no purpose. It doesn’t hurt him.”

“But it makes me feel better,” I said.

Sherlock's iPhone chirped again.

“That would be my _brother_.”

“And time for you to leave,” I said, grabbing the back of Moriarty’s coat and dragging him to the door. “Text Mrs. H that the banging down the stairs she’s about to hear is me throwing out the trash.”

Watching him bounce was satisfying.

The door wasn’t shut and bolted but two minutes when Sherlock got a text: _We’re not finished yet._

Then we heard a tap, tap, tap at the door followed by the pop of a gunshot through the window, leaving a second hole in the wall behind Sherlock.

I swore, throwing the light switch off in the living room. "Turn off all the lights— I don't want him to see where we are."

I ran into Sherlock’s room to make certain his windows were latched.

"But...th-then it'd be dark," Sherlock stuttered.

"Duh, yeah. I don't want him to see us, and I don't want you to become a walking target through the windows, okay? You almost got shot, and you’re bitching about the dark?!"

"But then _we_ can't see either." Sherlock hesitated, fumbling with the dining room dimmer switch.

I grabbed Sherlock's hand with a reassuring squeeze. Sherlock was afraid of the Boogie Man when he was a kid. Had nightmares for years. His fear of the dark was over long ago.

This was no time for Sherlock to regress.

"No shit," I said, turning off the last lamp in the living room.

"I don't like it all dark." Sherlock stumbled into me. "Well, I didn’t used to...you remember."

We both tensed as we heard another tap, tap, tap.

Sherlock texted Mrs. H again.

"Let's go to bed. He can't see in there— the shades are drawn. And I don't care if it's dark in the bedroom— it's supposed to be." Sherlock whispered, stumbling with me back into the bedroom.

I walked us to the nightstand and let go of his hand. Both of us stripped off our clothes in silence, getting ready for bed as quietly as possible. My nerves rattled and my thoughts clattered.

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Tap._

 

Shit, this was the first time since all this started that I wasn't lusting after Sherlock as he stripped down near me. It was dark, but I could make out his silhouette stiffening from Moriarty's constant knocking. Sherlock was more uptight than me, if that was possible.

I slipped into bed, and Sherlock slipped in behind, spooning himself against me. He kissed the fine baby hairs on the back of my neck and squirmed his hips closer. I couldn't hear Moriarty’s minion tapping anymore. I let Sherlock's heat obliterate everything screwed up and wrong in my world. I just wanted him beside me. He sensed my need, moving his hand around my waist, fondling me. I liked to think he needed me just as much.

I closed my eyes and kept myself quiet, balling my hands into fists to keep from moaning. I nudged my ass into his cock, and he gently answered with slow deliberate friction. Then I rolled around, facing him.

The electric charge of his cock brushing against mine sent me searching for Sherlock's mouth. The second jolt of his hand encircling his cock and mine tight together made me clank my teeth into his. Sherlock pushed me over onto my back, his soft bottom lip brushing my earlobe while he whispered, "I almost like this better than your cock in my ass— God, that’s it."

Between feeling his cock sliding against mine and his hand skillfully pumping both of our shafts, I couldn't speak. He rubbed both heads together, rolling them in his large palm. That, along with his little confessional, sent my heart skipping and my stomach flipping.

Finally able to speak, I asked him, "What do you like best?"

I bit back a moan as he answered, "Don't know— not finished yet." 

Fuck. I felt like I was going to come right then. I groaned in disappointment as he moved his hand out from between us, then moaned in delight as he slipped his right leg between mine and ground his cock against me. Both cocks were slick from sweat and pre-come. I desperately groped his curls. I'd always been a bit embarrassed that my cock bent a bit to the left when I was erect, but now this little eccentricity made for a perfect fit, hooking Sherlock and I together, never breaking the friction. I don't think at that point I would have heard Moriarty if he was smashing down the door, the blood pounded so hard in my ears. Sherlock's incredible stomach muscles tensed against me and his sweet sighs swelled my chest. I kept willing myself to keep from crying out, burying my mouth against Sherlock's neck to muffle the sounds I was making. I loved the taste of his salty sweat and the smell of our sex. I moaned all the more.

God.

He was forced to take my mouth just to silence me, flicking his tongue around in every space in my mouth. His soft lashes flitted gently against my eyelids as his teeth nipped my lower lip. We rocked against each other with hard and deliberate thrusts. Slick and wet. This was no quick fuck. We were slowly building a heat and friction that sparked deep inside our souls. Our chests, lips and cocks locked together, igniting. Equals. I shook, and Sherlock trembled. As I felt myself falling close to the edge, coming, my heart locked with his.

And I called out his name, too loudly. But I didn't care.

After I came, I still rocked against Sherlock, holding my breath, waiting for his seed to mingle with mine. What would I do without him? I crushed him against me. He covered my face with salty kisses as he came.

We both froze  as we heard a sharp, deliberate tap on the bedroom window like a stone hitting it.

“Fuck,” I said, and closed my eyes. Sherlock kissed my brow in reassurance. He flinched as a second stone struck the window. Sick and tired of it all, I sat up.

I tried. I tried so hard. But my mind couldn't still what Moriarty said about setting people on fire.

Then the tapping on the side of the house began.

I hoped Sherlock didn't know Morse code. But I figured he must, with his analytical mind.The message ended and then began a second time and I tried to forget what I heard by pulling Sherlock close to me.

But I couldn't sleep or erase the words: _Burn, baby, burn._

\------------------------------

Before one a.m., I went downstairs and explained in detail to Mrs. H exactly what happened. She had plenty of questions. Sherlock’s texts were cryptic. He pretty much told her to lock her doors and hide. I needed to talk to him more about that.

By two a.m., Mycroft’s men had cleaned up the crime scene and made sure no report was filed. I felt bad for Barnum and Bailey and their families.The life expectancy of those who work for Mycroft sucks.

By three a.m. more of Mycroft’s men had installed an alarm system and put a peephole in the frickin' door. They installed door and window sensors and a glass-break detector, which picks up the thump of a window being hit and sound of shattering glass. They installed cameras around the house.

By five a.m. I’d given up trying to sleep. I couldn’t. Sherlock didn’t.

By six a.m. I told Sherlock both of us were staying in for the day. No way I was leaving Sherlock alone. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was flames. Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't argue with me. Or Mycroft’s men, who agreed with me.

At eight a.m., Mycroft walked in the door himself. He stayed long enough to make sure we were relatively healthy and to allow Sherlock time to insult him. It made Sherlock feel better.

Sherlock was also supposed to meet a client at noon about a lead on a missing person, but I made him cancel. I didn't want him out of the house— not unless he was in a public place. Sherlock never likes anyone telling him what to do, but today I didn’t give a flying rat's ass. After that psycho-bastard’s visit last night, I was filled with hate and rage. I wanted to find him and burn _him_ to ashes. His words and the Morse code in the night left no doubt that he was responsible for my family’s murder.

Sherlock spent the morning on the Internet. Not sure what he was tracking down.

I spent the morning playing my guitar.

I was working on a new song I'd written when I looked up at Sherlock and noticed him watching me. I guess playing a D minor diminished, C major, A minor sequence while singing the words “Rubber cement” thirty-six times in succession _could_ be irritating to _some_ people. I gave Sherlock my best grin and said, "I prefer writing music on the piano."

He looked at me deadpan and said, "I don't think it'd sound any better on the piano or my violin." I sorta got pissed off by his comment— guess I was being a temperamental artist. I missed my studio, my home. I jumped up and went into the kitchen and banged canned green beans and Campbell's soup around in the cupboard, pretending I was rummaging for something to eat.

"John, no need to be so testy. Play your guitar. Sing. Just not about rubber cement."

I opened the fridge and got a Coke.

"Well, I'm sorry— just how many kitchen tables have caught on fire from your experiments? That’s right...five! Tonight's the first time since all this happened that I’m playing in public— and the first time with Sean.”

“We agreed _we_ weren’t going out today.”

“Oh, no. I’m playing tonight. That fucking asshole isn’t going to run my life.”

“Run _your_ life! I’m the one who canceled my interview! It was the best lead I’ve had on a case in months. It was an eight. _An eight_!”

“Oh, shut up, Sherlock. I don’t need this. You know I always get edgy before a gig, but I'm feeling really uneasy about tonight. I’d feel better if you stayed here."

Sherlock laughed in my face. "No."

I knew he’d say that.

"If I were you, I’d worry more about Sean Lestrade. Your _replacement_."

“You fucking dick!”

"Don't look at me that way," he said. "I’m just voicing your own thoughts. The boys in the band love you. Besides, you’re better than that Sean."

"You didn't hear him last night. With everything that happened, I didn’t tell you how incredible he was."

"John, not to worry. I think you’re the best, and I’m the only person who really matters. Correct?"

I smiled at that. The self-centered bastard was right. He almost always was.

\------------------------------

As we rode to Adam's Den, my hands tapped while I hummed along with Cobain gargling "Smells Like Teen Spirit" on the radio. Every time Sherlock looked at me in my black leather pants and fish-net shirt…

_Twitch.  
_

I slapped his hand away from my crotch four times. I don't feel right sauntering into the bar with tight leather jeans and a raging erection. But pulling over to the side of the road for a remedy wasn't an option tonight. Not on a dark dirt road where we could get ambushed.

"Ouch. Stop that," Sherlock said, after I swatted his hand for the fifth time. "You're just so hard to resist. How am I supposed to protect you when you're wearing that?"

"Protect _me_? You're the one who needs protecting. Just stay out of the way if any trouble starts, and I'll be fine."

Sherlock pulled into the back loading dock behind the bar where we were playing. Ted Blandship, one of our sound men, waved at us as he took a drag off his cigarette.

Adam's Den was a cut above most band bars in the area. Nearly perfect acoustics with a stage that overlooks the audience. The pay was substantial _and_ timely. Most importantly, the bouncers were real bouncers, not some drunks paid to bang heads— any heads. They watched the band like mother bears watch their cubs. And the waitresses never had to worry— any unwelcome slap on the butt earned the poor slob a spot at the curb outside. And no one ever threw shit at you on stage. The management promoted the top-notch atmosphere. I felt better as I walked in. We'd be safer here than at home. It was the ride there and back that worried me. Sherlock’s eyes checked the rearview mirror the whole drive there.

The owners, Bill and Rob Plonski, ran the bar for going on eighteen years. They liked to book bands well in advance. _The BoneYard Bastards_ and the management had a difference of opinion last Saturday, and the band walked— leaving no live entertainment. The owners didn't take to karaoke or disc jockeys on weekends; they wanted old-fashioned flesh-and-blood bands. Despite the cost, bands pulled in crowds with money. That, and Bill and Rob both _liked_ our band. We're good, reliable and we could draw a crowd. They knew we had nothing on our calendar so they called us when the other band took a hike. To get a gig here on such short notice was unusual. I don't think the owners would have let the other band walk if we weren't available; they were businessmen, after all.

While I helped set up, Sherlock found a seat with Anderson and Mary up front, saving a seat for me for between sets. All of the band was here except our newest member. We were just starting to tune up when he stumbled in with some lame excuse, like he couldn't find the place.

"Is your uncle coming?" I hollered over the amps.

"What?" he yelled back.

"Is Dr. Lestrade coming tonight?"

"He can't, but he’s coming tomorrow." I gave Sean the thumbs up.

"I think we're ready," Ted hollered.

Jim gave us the nod, "One, two, three." Bill ripped off a power chord, and we we're off.

During the first couple songs I distractedly watched the floor for Moriarty or Moran. I looked over at the table and noticed Sherlock quietly watching me and scanning the bar— looking for the same characters, and for Lestrade. I worried about him watching out for me; I wished he wouldn't. The guys in the band would look out for me. They have for years. We were a family. We watched out for each other. And they didn’t have Moriarty’s obsessive, perverse attention fixed on them; Sherlock did.

As I played, I started to relax. We sounded the best we ever had. Sean was terrific. I didn't feel intimidated or like I was being replaced— I felt euphoric. I always felt a buzz or rush on stage, but this was an existential experience. We meshed, morphed, mind-melded. Bill, Jim, Smith, me and now Sean. The other band members and I had played together, Hell, we grew up together. But this, this transcended all my expectations for any group. It was Sean, that was the key. It wasn't just that he anticipated each hesitation, each movement on the neck of my guitar— we anticipated each other's. It was uncanny.

When we both sang into the microphone, magic happened. Hocus pocus shit. And I wasn't the only one who noticed. The other band members did. Waitresses weren't waiting on their customers, but stood blocking the aisles, watching. And the ones that matter most, the patrons— all heads faced our stage, listening.

The crowd hooted and hollered when Bill announced, "This is the last song of our first set. So get up out of your seats! We're gonna to play a song that one of our members wrote…" Old Bill motioned to me. We all looked at him. He had decided to change the usual set order. The reaction from the crowd told us he made the right choice. It was one of those fast, hard crowd pleasers. The bass vibrated the room, and I began:

_Don't need dreams, / Don't need fame._

_Don't need you / To feed my pain._

_What I need / I can't have._

_'Cause I can't have / What I need._

By the end of the first verse, the floor was packed. We've never had that many people on the dance floor during a first set song.

On the final chord, we got one hell of an ovation. And we weren't even done for the night. Right then I was so high I didn't think I was ever going to come down.

The whole band pulled up seats around our table, and we had more rounds of beer bought for us than we'd ever drink the whole night. I was slapped on the back so many times on the way to my seat that I thought I was bruised to the bone. The first thing out of Bill's mouth when we sat down was, "Sean's voice melds with yours— it's surreal, man!" I smiled and put my arm around Sean, who was smirking.

I messed his hair, lifted my beer up, and cleared my throat. "Here's to Sean. And to Failing Upward." Everyone drank— except Sherlock, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. But.

"I hope you won't be disappointed," I said as I patted Sherlock on the knee. "Sean's uncle couldn't make it tonight to see us."

"He said he'd come tomorrow night, though," Sean added.

"We’re so hot! I hope we can keep up for the rest of the night," Smith said.

I looked over at Sherlock. He caught me looking at him and smiled. "You sound better than you ever have," he said.

Bill slapped him on the back, "Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. You must be the world’s greatest fuck. I’ve never heard his guitar hum that way before..."

Sherlock grinned into his glass, and my cheeks got hot.

"It's not just me," I said, trying to ignore the comment. "It's all of us. I can't believe how great we sound. Sean, you too."

"You didn’t tell us much about your family the other night," Sherlock said. “Where’d you go to school?”

"I grew up here and went to St. John’s. I used to come listen to you play all the time before I went off to college. I played in a band with some friends at Notre Dame. Not your rock and alternative blend though— kind of a post-punk revival."

"That's cool as long as it's not any of that rap crap," said Jimbo.

I noticed that one of the owners had come up and was standing behind Anderson.

"You're in rare form. Maybe we could extend this arrangement?"

“And the pay?” Bill asked.

“We can talk about it.”

We clanked our bottles together and hooted.

By the end of the second set, we were burning down the house. I jumped out onto the floor and played (something I never do,) and Old Bill was going to be able to score with over half the women in the bar. Smith was eyeing Sean with renewed appreciation, and got plenty of laughs when he boldly pinched Sean's ass.

We played the usual cover of “I Want You to Want Me” in the middle of the second set. The song, with our own unique twist, was a solid set ender. Its pounding rhythm always gets people pumped. Tonight, though, it had a bit more meaning for me. I'd thought all week about this song— it was one of Sherlock's favorites. When I began singing, I looked right at him. He didn't drop his gaze. I belted out, _"I'll get home early from work,/ if you say that you'll love me"_ when I heard another voice break in with mine. It was Sean.

I never looked back at Sherlock again until the last bar of the last song.

Man had I fucked up.

Mary marched up to me after we quit for break.

"John, what the fuck is _wrong_ with you? You'd better _stop_ flirting with that new fucking guitarist. I thought the two of you were going to start screwing right there on the stage. I know a lot is just the show, but did you have to rub yourself up and down on his leg? Look at Sherlock. He's a mess. He's been drinking since you started this last set. I’m not his babysitter! Get your shit together and take care of your boyfriend."

One look at the table told me I’d fucked up. Sherlock stared into his shot glass like the meaning of life was at its bottom. And he sure as hell wasn’t in his mind palace.

"Kiss his feet. Lick his feet. Beg his forgiveness." Mary and I walked up to the table. My passion on stage _was_ over the top but— it _was_ for show. Shit, Smith _kissed_ Sean— _I_ didn't. Still, I could see how Sherlock might take it wrong. Probably not a good idea to dry hump his leg. We got near the table, and Sherlock's ocean eyes caught me with such painful intensity that I thought they'd crushed my heart to pulp. I'm such an asshole.

That was when the fight started.

I saw it begin in slow motion. Two guys at the table next to ours with their backs to Sherlock shouted drunkenly: “Fuck you, you asshole!”

“Don't you _touch_ my woman!”

“She _liked_ it!”

Before anyone else could move, the bigger guy with _“Do It 'til Ya Die”_ on the back of his t-shirt had the smaller one on the floor, pounding him into a bloody mess with his fist. The poor guy on the ground either pissed his pants or spilled his beer in a conspicuous place. The big guy had just picked the little one up off the floor when the bouncers reached them. T-shirt managed to throw a final roundhouse punch, missing the poor little schlep and hitting Smith right in the eye. I went over and got Smith ice. By the time the commotion ended, our final set was ready to begin again. I looked over at Sherlock. He hadn't moved during the brawl, still staring into his beer.

It's a huge cliché, I know, but the show must go on.  You'd think that knowing Sherlock was feeling awful, I'd have a bit of empathy and curb my enthusiasm… but what can I say, a musician lives for the crowd. The truth was, I felt the best I had in weeks.

Failing Upward was hot. For the first time I really believed we could actually be something more than a garage band playing in hick bars.

Then, finally, toward the end of the night, this feeling deep down swelled up. I understood why I _could_ feel this wonderful— why I was _able_ to feel this way about the band despite all the shit going on in my life. It was Sherlock; it was because I was in love with Sherlock.

The last song, of course, is never the last song. I hoped Sherlock saw it that way, too.

By the time I helped get our equipment together, Mary had already been backstage to talk to me twice. I told her not to worry, that I would drive him home and take care of him.

She said that was what she was afraid of.

"I can fix this," I said.

On my way to the table, I saw Sean admiring Smith's eye.

I sat down next to Sherlock. He looked up at me and sighed, then looked back down in his drink.

"Come on, Sherlock. Give me the keys, I'm driving." He submissively reached in his pocket, pulled out his keys and put them in my hand.

Bill asked if we wanted to go to Smith's for a party, but I shooed him off. Usually I'm up for a party after playing, but from now on in my life, someone else came first: Sherlock.

I got Sherlock out to the car without much effort. He didn't say a word to me until we were almost home.

"John, what was that all about tonight? I'm glad the band _meshed_ , and I'm glad your plans for the band are coming together. But tell me, that plan in your head, does it include me?"

I knew what I should have said, but sometimes I'm slow.

“God, I don't deserve you."

"God damn it, John, that's what people say when they really mean _you're not the one for me_."

"Shit. This isn't going right. I thought we'd always be friends no matter what."

"They also say that.”

“No. That’s not what I meant!"

“Maybe you just better shut up,” Sherlock barked out.

We rode the rest of the way without saying a word.

I tried to help him up the steps, but he refused to lean on me. I kicked open the door and disarmed the security system while Sherlock stumbled into the bathroom. I re-armed it and threw the car keys on the counter. I could hear Sherlock puking. I sat on the sofa with my head down listening to his dry heaves.

Finally, the water splashed in the sink. He wavered out, face pale, and made his way straight into the bedroom, flopping down on the bed.

"Good night," he said forlornly.

I walked to the bedroom. As I stood in the doorway, I heard him whisper my name.

"Yes?" I answered.

"Jawn. _Johnny_ ." He paused. "Do you know how hard it's been this week? To have you and not know how you really feel? I _love_ you. And I want you to love me back so bad."

“ _Sherlock_.”

I walked across the room and sat next to him on the bed. I started unbuttoning his sexy purple shirt, and he watched my hands move slowly down, from one button to the next.

“You are beautiful. Impossible. Brilliant.”

“Is this a pity fuck?” he asked, as I slipped a button out of its hole near his navel.

I straddled his thighs and looked down at him as I pulled the rest of his shirt from his trousers.

“No, it’s not.”

He grabbed the front of my fishnet shirt and pulled me to him. His full lips pressed hard against mine.

“I’m fine with that if it is. I’d just like to know.”

I slid his shirt off his shoulders.

His skilled fingers unfastened my fly, massaging my cock as he undid each shiny rivet. He gazed unblinkingly into my eyes. For being intoxicated, he had remarkable control. The black leather pants stuck stubbornly to my thighs; Sherlock strained to peel them off me. Throwing them to the floor, he rolled me onto my back. He looked down at me, eyelids heavy, breath ragged.

"Sherlock?"

Good. I wanted to see his eyes, his face, to memorize his reaction when I told him. He held my stiff cock in his hand and slowly lowered himself down.

His strangled cry seared into me as he buried my cock up to my balls inside him with no lube.

He panted in and out in rapid bursts, moving slowly, savoring the bitter pain. His suffering was an atonement for my selfish silence. Sherlock sobbed softly as I rolled him off.

“John?”

“I’m not hurting you. Just a moment...”

“I need to feel _something_ ,” he rumbled.

“You will.”

I slicked my cock up generously with the lube. He began again, lowering himself down until my cock disappeared. He was surprisingly steady as he moved. He didn’t ride me, he drove. Grinding on me, he pushed and pulled up and down like he was possessed. In between his frenzied slices of agony, I heard him sniff and gulp. His tears dropped onto my chest and face. I knew his pain.

He fucked me with such desperation. His thoughts and feelings tangible, his drunken pangs filtered through me, revealing his fear that this fuck might be the last.

“Not letting you go,” I said brokenly as my hands staggered across the bed, gripping the sheets.

I wanted my words to mean what I felt, to be more than sounds gasped out in throes of passion-pain or in mindless murmured fits of lust. I wanted him to know that my words came from my soul. I let go of the sheet and caressed his face. His pain no longer unbearable, his body clenched and he groaned, hovering near climax. I was too. With Sherlock's full weight on me, two more desperate heaves, and he came across my stomach and chest, his tears wet against my hand.

He collapsed against me, breathing hard.

"John," he panted. My fingers traced his mouth. I kissed his hair.

“I don't want you to end up like everyone else I've ever loved in my life," I said.

" _John_ ," he choked out again.

"I love you," I whispered.

"What did you say? I think I heard it, but I'm not sure. Say it again."

" _I love you_."

We should probably get cleaned up, but he was drunk and I was tired, and I just wanted to hold him.

He kissed my hair, then said, "I sure hope I remember this in the morning."


	12. Wet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: Supernatural sex, a few answers and far more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to MrBotanyB who makes me look good and inspires. More than a Beta!

His hand jerked, the back of it resting on his brow. I imagined, from that shadow of a frown, last night's overindulgence haunted him a bit. But as I lay in bed watching, his dark eyelashes fluttering as he slept, nothing I could recall was as beautiful.

He moaned in his sleep, brows furrowing. I was tempted to reach out and touch him or run my tongue down his bare chest. But if I did that, I'd spoil the perfect magic of his naked form sprawled enticingly next to me. According to the digital clock, I'd been admiring him for a good sixty-eight minutes.

I loved the way his nose twitched while dreaming, and I hoped his dreams were of me.

God,  _ he loves me _ . 

And the band was incredible last night. When I think about how incredible Sherlock was, well, I licked my bottom lip and thought of ten more ways I could show him how much I loved him.

Then his eyes fluttered again, only this time they blinked open. 

"Good Morning, man I love..." I whispered and gave him a kiss.

"Mmm, so that really  _ did  _ happen last night," he said, carefully adjusting the pillow under his head. 

"Yes,  _ really. _ How are you feeling?"

"Not bad, surprisingly. But I haven't moved much yet. That might change."

I raised up on my elbow and leaned into him. "Would another kiss hurt or help?"

"Help, I'm sure." 

Oh, yes. That nice long, leisurely morning kiss multiplied and extended on to his neck, dipped down to his nipples, then started all over again and lingered on his perfect mouth. 

"Nice," he yawned, mussing my hair. "At this rate we'll never leave here. Stay in bed all day."

"Fuck and talk. Sounds good."

"Or talk and fuck."

Why did Sherlock always have to spoil things? Talk, talk, talk. The man was Hamlet. At least he didn’t usually harp about feelings, thank God, but the man could yammer on about maggots and rotting flesh and bees until the river of today merged into the river of forever. Not that I  _ didn't  _ want to tell him ten ways I loved him— it was just that I prefer action and had ten ways I'd love to show him already planned.

“I’m sorry,” he said."I thought I should start with sorry. I didn't mean to be so... _ jealous _ ."

Well, so much for  _ not _ sharing feelings. Now I had to reciprocate. "Don't apologize, since the result was best sex I’ve ever had! I’m the one that should apologize. I was afraid to say I love you. Then the way I, um, acted with Sean last night. Sometimes I get carried away on stage and go a bit overboard. You've always been so comfortable with yourself. Me, I feel  _ odd _ or  _ queer _ — er, maybe that's not the word to use, but with everything else that's going on now. I just didn’t think."

"We've avoided talking about our friendship and our feelings. I hoped...but...you've had a lot to deal with without me pressuring you. Moran, Moriarty and the garden stirred up this urgency between us. John, you must know that I will never be sorry for what’s happened but..." 

What was that? Sherlock’s insecurity about our relationship? Or a premonition? Both possibilities twisted inside me. 

"Sherlock, what's between us isn’t some phase. But I'm sorry I got you into the rest of this insanity."

He laughed so hard he started to choke. "John,” he said finally catching his breath, “I think we both better quit with the sorrys. If I had to say I was sorry for all the tight situations I got you into, we’d never leave this bed!”

That wouldn’t be so bad, I thought.

“Moriarty and Moran?! Nothing! Remember the time that butcher cut up his wife and thought we should be next on his menu? Or Roger the homicidal taxidermist who thought our heads would look good mounted over his fireplace? Moriarty thinks he’s a villain! Have we forgotten all we’ve ever accomplished together? Think of all the tight situations we’ve been in: What did we do then that we aren’t doing now? We’re forgetting we are strongest together! We’re forgetting that we shouldn’t wait for them! Why are we waiting for Moriarty to make the next move? We are a team. Let’s continue as a team. We’ve done this before. We don’t wait for Moriarty.  _ We  _ make the next move."

He sounded like my last soccer coach. Sherlock was never into team sports. He saying this as an appeal to me. And he'd scoffed at Moran and Moriarty, but not at the garden. So Sherlock felt that the real danger to us didn’t walk on two legs.. 

"Next move...like what?" I asked.

“A plan! We need a plan, of course.”

“Of course.” Oh, great. One of Sherlock’s  _ plans _ where I get tied up or handcuffed or hit over the head. But Sherlock was right. Up until now, I had absolutely no clue as to what to do to keep us safe. What good was it to be locked up at Baker Street when Sherlock just lets him in? What good is Mycroft’s protection when Moriarty murders Mycroft’s men? Sherlock suggested that we move first. To what end? He most likely intended to use himself as bait. No way I’d allow him to do that.

We needed help, and more than Mycroft could offer. This help needed to be on the same psychic level as Moriarty. Lestrade was beginning to look like our only answer. 

"When you came up to the hospital to visit me, what did you tell me? Remember the night of the fire?” I asked. “Before you took me home, you asked me if I remembered what you told me at the hospital. And I couldn't. When I asked you— you told me it wasn't important. So, what was it? What did you tell me?"

"What do you think? I told you I loved you," Sherlock said, rubbing his temple. "But you already guessed that."

"I wasn't sure. I thought maybe..." I said smiling. "Yeah, but that wasn't the only reason  _ why  _ I asked you about that night. It was what happened  _ after  _ you talked to me that I wanted to remember too. There’s something important I can’t recall. It’s right there in my head, but it’s like there’s a wall blocking it.”

“You were acting dopey, talking nonsense about llamas. Then you told me to come closer and said you had to tell me a secret. Then you kissed me. And right when you did, that big nurse comes barging into your room and laughs." 

"That was Bernice." 

Well, that made sense now. That was why Bernice kept bugging me about my boyfriend. Explained her winking at me all the time.    


"Yeah, she kept pinching my cheek and telling me I was adorable. It was most unpleasant."

"Just how did I kiss you?” I asked. “Like a friendly peck? Maybe you should demonstrate."

"With this hangover, I probably feel pretty close to how you did that day. Come here." 

I rolled over on my side closer to him, and he kissed me tenderly on the lips, slowly opened his mouth just a bit, and brushed his tongue along my bottom lip. Nice. Maybe that’s what I couldn’t remember: our first kiss.

I cleared my throat. "I did that? I'm pretty good." 

Sherlock slapped my ass, and we started to wrestle. Sherlock found every ticklish inch of me, taking particular sadistic pleasure teasing the inside of my thighs with baby pinches. Either Sherlock was  _ incredibly _ hung over, or he  _ let _ me win, but I ended up on top of him, pinning his arms down, both of us panting hard. His face flushed with want as he hardened underneath me. Me? I was already pretty hard from that kiss earlier, but now a deep need filled me, creeping from my stomach and tightening my balls.

" _ Now you pay _ . I get to be on top this time, and do that thing we did the other day. You know," I said, lowering my voice, "what  _ some  _ guys prefer." I ground my hips into him hard.

"God, John, that feels good." 

Touching Sherlock in any way normally would send an aurora of light and heat through me  _ without  _ sex, but these bursts became near-explosive  _ during _ . It transcended the normal sensory realm— not just through my eyes or ears or finger tips— but some extrasensory-radiation spiraling through me, always leaving me just on the edge, like the euphoric bliss just before orgasm.

Maybe it was the sound of air gasping from his lungs or maybe the feel of his cock twitching next to mine, coaxing me, but I imploded into an all-consuming maelstrom. Pushing his arms down tighter into the mattress, I tried to reverse the process. I felt my own body begin to collapse into him. I sucked at the nape of his salty, sweet neck, like it was the last thing I'd ever taste my whole life. I needed to be with him, inside him. Instinctively rubbing myself against him, feeling our balls, our cocks and every curly pubic hair merge— all the while the desperate want for more, more, more. A deeper release.

I reached between us like Sherlock had done and curled my hand around both our cocks. The thrill of feeling his pulse beating through my hand  _ and _ through my cock was major sensory-overload. I honestly didn't know how Sherlock did this the other night without coming right away. Both silky smoothness and solid heat slipping through my hand, I willed myself not to cry out, not to come. I realized that every time we'd fucked before that moment, I had let my senses rule me. He became part of me, not me a part of him. Sherlock allowed me that. I knew what I was, and what I wanted. Him instead of me. Sherlock. How his bottom lip trembled like he’d read my thoughts. How his nostrils quivered as I slowed my strokes. 

Milking his lips with mine, my eyes wide in his, I knew I needed to do more than show him I loved him. He needed to hear it. I slipped my hand away from us both, letting our sweat and fluids mingle in a feverish heady friction. 

"I love you," I said, a little louder and a little more forcefully.

Sherlock, giving my ear little wet kisses, whispered back, "John, I've always loved you." 

Then it just happened. 

Crying during sex might not be a cool thing to do, but damn, I couldn't stop it. I felt him coming  _ through _ me. The sobbing started as Sherlock came and continued as I came.  Afterward, I wrapped myself into him, and he dried my happy tears with his obscenely high-thread-count sheets as I sobbed some more. But fuck, I didn't care. Embarrassed? No. Sherlock held on and rocked me. In love, in this place, I was safe.

There was something else I was missing, and it wasn’t just our first kiss. It was right there on the edge of my memory. Why couldn’t I remember?

"What was that?" I asked.

Sherlock rolled over and laughed. "You mean Toby scratching the door or me making you cry? I’ve made plenty of people cry before, but never in bed." 

"How about I make coffee while you take a shower, then I'll come in and scrub your back." 

“Mmm, yes.”

We both stood on our wobbly legs and went into the bathroom. Sherlock threw a wet wash cloth at me while I was trying to piss. "Clean yourself up, you hussy."

I wiped myself off with the wash cloth. I borrowed Sherlock's red robe and studied my reflection in the mirror as I brushed my teeth; I didn't look any different. I rinsed my mouth out, spitting, then rubbed my chin. 

“Hey!” he shouted. “I’m in the shower! Turn off the water!” I laughed and threw the washcloth back at him. I needed a shave, but I'd do that after a shower. I looked the same. Seems like people would look different when they're in love. “I said, turn it off!”

Sherlock was impatient, so I hurried. 

I whistled, sprinting through the living room, expecting Toby to run through my legs. He should be barking to go out. Instead I heard his nails clicking on the kitchen floor. 

That was when I noticed the aroma of Earl Grey tea. I knew I felt something off earlier.

Then I heard the squeak again. Shoes on tile. From the corner of my eye, I saw him. Imagine my shock: wearing old denim jeans with holes in the knees, a dingy t-shirt and a faded Cubs baseball cap. He hadn't shaved today, either. I barely recognized him.

"Good morning," Mycroft said, kneeling down and petting Toby. He nuzzled his hand, coaxing him to continue tail thumping. Doggy hair was all over his clothes; he'd been here awhile.

"Shit! What are you doing here?! And what the hell are you wearing?!" I said, in an effort to keep  my voice down but not succeeding. I heard the gurgle of water running down the drain from the shower.

"This is, inpart, to illustrate how easy it is to get to you."

“Of course it’s easy, for you! You put in the security! What is this really about? Why are dressed like that?” I gritted my teeth.

"I'm here to protect you. You needed this little lesson. You aren't safe here. No alarm, deadbolt or flimsy chain is going to stop Moriarty and his followers."

"So I'm supposed to  _ follow _ you,  _ trust _ you, just like that."

"You have before. You have even less of a choice now. I also have my brother’s safety to consider. If you stay here, you put Sherlock at risk. That knife Moran stuck in you could easily have been in him."

I hesitated. Sherlock was calling me from the bathroom. “That still doesn’t explain your clothes.”

“A disguise. No one would recognize me in  _ these _ .” He sat down at the kitchen table, sipping the tea he’d made.

“You’re right about that.”

“There is also Mrs. Hudson to consider.”

“Mrs. Hudson?” The water turned off in the bathroom, and I heard the shower curtain rings scraping against the rod. Guess the opportunity to scrub Sherlock’s back just disappeared.  _ Thanks, Mycroft _ .

“I think it is best if you and my brother come with me to Lestrade's. While you are here, she is also in danger. No need to pack anything. I can send some men to bring your things around later. Now would be good."

"The water started getting cold waiting,” Sherlock said. “I thought I heard..." He stopped, robe flopping open, his naked body pink from the hot water. Confusion washed over his face as he stepped forward again, sensing the tension. As Sherlock eyed his brother sitting at the table from the ball cap to tattered sneakers, he smiled and crumpled his robe together in laughter.

"Why'd you let him in," he gasped, “dressed like  _ that _ ?”

"I didn't. He let himself in," I said. “Need I remind you that you’re the one who lets in people you shouldn’t. Like Moriarty.”

Sherlock’s confusion surprised me. Mycroft blinked with realization.

“He used a subliminal suggestion on you, dear brother.”

“It won’t happen again. Fool me once, shame on him. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

To Sherlock’s irritation, Toby’s head still rested contentedly in Mycroft's lap even after Sherlock came into the room. 

"I was just explaining to John the facts of life and death, as it were. He needs protection. You need protection, it seems, from yourself. Painful as it is for me to admit, my services are not enough under the circumstances."

"Are the cameras on in this room, because I would love to replay this moment for you," I said.

“I had these turned off along with those in the living room. I’m afraid we’ve been compromised. Moriarty and those like him have an unnatural influence.”

Compromised? That was concerning. Also the fact that that our makeout session on the couch was captured on camera.

Sherlock squinted in thought. His gaze fell onto Toby. 

"Yes, _ fine _ ," Sherlock answered, waving his arm dismissively.

"What?" I said, surprised. 

"Toby trusts him for some obscure reason. I cannot trust myself, it seems, not to open the door. As you’ve told me time and again, John, animals sense what humans cannot. And as you have also pointed out to me throughout my life, he  _ is _ my brother. He does care for me in his own twisted way.”

“It’s decided then,” Mycroft said, clapping his hands. “Get dressed. I will take you to a safe house.”

“And that would be  _ where _ ?” Sherlock asked.

“Lestrade's.”

“That house! You must be kidding. Tell me you’re kidding.”

“Sherlock, when's the last time you heard your brother make a joke?” I said.

“Lestrade’s home offers more protection than any other place I could possibly offer. More than any army of men or security systems could supply. It offers,to those who belong, something beyond the physical.” 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “You’re speaking of the metaphysical?”

“You want to save yourselves? You must go to Lestrade's. Beyond the unique protection offered by the house and grounds, continued exposure to Mica is necessary for John’s protection. More importantly, for your protection, Sherlock.” 

He said that for my benefit, not Sherlock’s. If what he said was true, I could see his point, but he had his own motives besides concern for our safety. However, experience told me Mycroft loved his brother, and he had some passing fondness for me.

His chair creaked as he shifted to face Sherlock, who still wasn’t sold on the idea of going to Lestrade’s.

"After you're dead, do you know what Moriarty will do to John? He'll experiment on him. Cut him apart. He will be alive to feel every cut, every burn, every bit of torture he dishes out. Worse. You know where his deviant proclivities tend. Use that large brain of yours. He  _ cannot  _ get to John." 

Again, Sherlock’s focus rested on Toby.

"We'll get dressed and get a few things together," Sherlock conceded. 

“I thought we were going to make the first move,” I said before following Sherlock out the door.

“We will. But we need a safe place to make our plan.”

We really didn't have any choice. I threw what few things I had into an old suitcase of Sherlock's and picked up my guitar. Sherlock, Toby and I left with Mycroft. 

\----------------------------------

They weren't surprised to see us. I walked into the musty living room and sneezed. Sean and Glenda took our things, and Lestrade motioned for Sherlock and I to sit on the same lumpy couch I had lain on, disoriented, just days before. Sherlock fidgeted more than I did, fingernails scratching the tops of his legs through denim. I reached over and held his hand tight.

While Sherlock squeezed the piss out of my hand, Dr. Lestrade's pale-blue eyes measured my nervous movements— my tennis shoes bobbing, knees jostling, scratching invisible itches on my shoulder and rubbing the back of my neck. Then there was Mycroft's steady stare. 

What the fuck they were waiting for? Talk, or else take me to the garden and hook me up with the roses. 

Even in this room, the scent intoxicated. It seeped in through my pores and enveloped me. The sensual pangs returned; Sherlock's thumb massaging my knuckles became the most erotic gesture I'd ever experienced. My cheeks burned and the silence in the room ate at my core. Sherlock’s thigh rubbing against mine wasn't helping either. Considering the company, I didn't want them to notice…

Lestrade cocked one of his eyebrows and crossed his legs. He knew. My cheeks burned hotter.

Waiting, waiting. 

I thought of shouting. Not a good idea. Instead I gave in. I spoke and asked the question that that had been most on my mind.

"So what is Moriarty’s weakness? If he’s like us, why does he have a limp? My appendectomy scar is gone. Can't be because he had an old injury."

"First, you're making a wrong assumption,” Lestrade said. “Moriarty is not like us."

“That's not an assumption. It's what he told me."

"Well, you shouldn’t be surprised that he's a liar. He is not like us at all. He's made. He had to change himself to become immortal."

Immortal? Fuck. It’s what I’d jokingly thought, but never considered seriously.

"He learned how to alter himself on a molecular level so that he now heals and feels no pain like us. He transfused himself with a serum derived from our cells, then infected himself with the rose. He wasn't the first to do this. There have been others since, but the effects are limited. They reverse after a time without a transfusion and re-infection. Moriarty and others like him need regeneration or their old wounds and injuries reappear. In a way, they are like leeches living off of us. And right now, Moriarty is a leech in need of a transfusion. He’s on borrowed time. It’s not working like it used to work."

Sherlock's hand was sweating in mine. I squeezed. I wasn't horny anymore. 

"You already know where Moriarty intends to get his next fix. But he's waiting to see if you're the one before he proceeds. He's got some time left, but not much."

My throat became dry. 

"You didn't become old just because you were buried beneath the sand,” Sherlock said. “The transfusion...Moriarty took your blood. That's what changed you."

"It was part of it. But not all."

"So what  _ are _ we, exactly?" I asked.

"A line of the same blood, the same family. Lestrade is just a last name we chose, not our given name. My real first name was Daniel. I go by Gregory now. Please call me that."

Same blood. All the same. What  _ is  _ he to me? 

Mycroft sat, observing, waiting for me to ask. I licked my lips. The motion wasn't lost on Lestrade.

Glenda and Sean came into the room. Sean leaned his shoulder against the oak door frame, and Glenda sat on the arm of Lestrade's chair, twirling her hair. 

"So, are you my father?" my voice crackled. 

"No, I'm your uncle. I'm sorry, son..."  he sat forward in the old rocking chair, scooting it closer to me. He rested his hand on my knee. "They died."

"How could that be? You said we're immortal." I felt dizzy and sick. The parents I knew  _ and _ the parents I never knew— dead. Maybe I should have asked how, but I couldn't bring myself to speak.

"I told you all this before, John. In the hospital. I'm your uncle, and Glenda is your aunt."

What I couldn’t remember besides the first kiss! That was it!

"...and I'm your brother," Sean said, so quietly that I wasn't sure I heard him at first. Then it all made sense. Sherlock was shaking next to me in laughter. What the fuck could be  _ that  _ funny?

"Last night...you were humping your brother's leg!" Sherlock said, slapping my knee. I didn't see the humor in that at all, although I imagined Sherlock could. 

Rubbing up and down his thigh was the last thing on my mind. I was stunned.

"I think it's time the two brothers talked," Glenda said.

Sean motioned his head for me to come, and as I got up, Sherlock stood to follow. Gregory moved his hand from my leg to Sherlock's, halting him.

"They need to talk together, without you there. Don't worry. He'll be safe. You are the one in danger now. Stay here safe in the house with us. John will explain everything when he comes back."

I gave his hand one last squeeze and said, "I'll be ok," although I wasn't sure that was true. I knew where Sean was taking me: We were on our way to the garden. I felt like some kind of human sacrifice. 

I followed Sean's slight form out the back door and through the yard. He was shorter than average, like me; nose like mine, but finer boned and larger eyes. We really didn’t look that much alike. As far as habits, he tilted his head the same and licked his lips, but little else save our musical talents. In music, we meshed perfectly. Maybe I should have realized our connection last night on stage. 

"After my parents died, Uncle Greg took me in. I've been here or away at college since."

I wanted to ask why our parents kept him and not me, but I couldn’t. 

Sean stopped on the garden path. "I know what you're feeling. The roses crush your senses, block out everything. In the beginning, I felt that too. Sometimes I still feel it, but those first few times before you're truly immortal, it consumes you."

"That's not all it does. Shit." Up ahead, I saw the trellis entrance, saw the roses on the other side. I flicked the sweat off my forehead as it ran into my eyes, burning. Sherlock was too far away. In the house, waiting for me. The last time Sherlock and I were in garden together, I craved him and wondered what it'd be like to throw him on the ground and fuck him in front of everyone. 

I blinked. I was flushed and breathing hard. Sean smiled at me oddly. 

"I'm afraid I can't help you out with that, being your brother and all." 

I looked at my feet. Standing in poison ivy, not good. Addled with sweat and sex from the rose's influence, I swabbed my brow with the bottom of my t-shirt. My eyes still stung. My heart thumped twice, then seized.

"God, do I have to go in there? I can't breathe."

"You have to do this for yourself and for Sherlock. You won’t be able to protect him if you don’t. Come on." 

I stepped through the garden gate first. 

Bursts of light like shards of broken glass sliced in through me then out again. Although my eyes no longer stung, my heart continued to beat twice then skip. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth. The sweet, sticky essence was thick on my tongue, insinuated itself through my pores, coursed through my blood. The tendrils reached out to me. I let them. The barbs hooked into my forearms and calves. A voice murmured,  _ lie down.  _ I obeyed. A cloudless blue sky broke through the canopy of trees that surrounded the garden clearing. My face upturned to the crisp sky, I closed my eyes with the warmth of the sun on my lids and the roses in my veins. My heart pounded the same pattern inside my chest, and the pulse rushed from my groin to my fingertips.

I swam. 

I floated.

Buoyant and warm, yet I shivered. I heard summer-dried grass rattle in the wind and the sun feed the tree with light. Then the tooth of a briar nicked my right eyelid, and I slept.

\----------------------------

I opened my eyes, recalling a hazy lustful dream of Sherlock touching me, willing me to come. 

My vision cleared and I remembered where I was—on the ground, in the garden. 

The sky had changed. Wispy clouds and whispering elms cast cool shadows on my legs. A crunch of leaves and I turned my head. Sean leaned back where he sat behind me, chewing on a blade of grass, legs crossed. 

Embarrassed, I jerked my hand from where it gripped my cock, jeans wet from the memory of my dream. I sat up, still disoriented, and heard Sean reciting Walt Whitman in a sing-songy voice:

“I celebrate myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same…”

 

My brother, whom I knew nothing about, offered the blade of grass, and I took it from him.

His lips trembled, and he sighed. 

"How...I suppose you want to know," and Sean said it as a statement, not a question. Yes, I did want to know. I wanted to know what he knew and not some transcendentalist mumbo-jumbo, although I studied the blade of grass with a kind of wonder. 

Then, without a word from me, he began: "They loved you. Our parents gave you up to save you. Mom and dad knew what you were. They hid you in plain sight where no one would suspect: the town where our parents lived. I didn't know about you until after they died. It was six years ago...the worst day of my life."

I pulled my knees up, hugging them while Sean plucked a new blade of grass and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. 

"It wasn't long after a record-breaking heat wave. You might remember that summer. Humidity and sweltering temperatures, six days hot as Hell with a sky-high heat index. At night from my room, I could hear the electrical power lines vibrating. I'm sure you were listening to them hum in your neighborhood too. The vibration resonated everywhere: every fan and air conditioner running on max. Dad rejected air conditioning years ago. Called it unhealthy, which was laughable. He said going from 68 to 98 degrees all day wasn't good for me. But really Mom and I knew he was just too cheap to get central air.

"By the third night of the heat wave, I decided no more waking up in a puddle of sweat. I packed a few clothes and went to a friend's air-conditioned, parent-free apartment. Mom bitched at Dad about it. Told him that they were driving me out of the house. The next day she nagged him into getting central air put in.

"On Thursday, August 12,  Mom called and said Rex's Heating and Cooling just finished putting in the air. I didn't go home that night. Stayed at my friend's instead. It was late. At three in the morning, someone started pounding on his door. My friend, Billy, yelled for them to go away, thinking it was some of his drunken friends wanting a place to crash. I don't blame him for not answering. Then the phone started ringing. I put the pillow over my head to drown out the noise. He didn’t answer. Said it was his drunk friends again. It wasn't until the second round of door pounding when it struck me that maybe something was wrong and maybe I should answer the door. I got up. Billy yelled for me not to answer, but my gut told me differently.

"I looked through the window. Aunt Glenda stood there on the steps with her hair uncombed and half-dressed. I knew something was wrong the moment I saw her, since her hair is always perfect. I opened the door, and she grabbed me, crying. Billy came out to see what the commotion was. I tried to get out of my aunt just what had happened. Then I noticed Uncle Greg on the steps behind her. He was the one who told me. I started yelling. Logically, I knew it wasn't his fault. He was just the messenger. Mostly I blamed myself: after all, they had put in central air because of me.

"According to the coroner, the cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning from a natural gas leak. He said they were already dead when the leak ignited. The concussion from the explosion was felt blocks away. The fire was intense. There was no way to physically identify the bodies. They asked for dental records, and they thought that medical records might help as well. I got them the next day. All of his records were in his safe at his office. In the back of my head, I knew. Imagine my surprise when I opened up the folders and  _ you _ were there.

"I never knew who I really was or what my parents were until I started asking Uncle Greg questions.  After all that happened, I wanted to know who you were, and where you were, even after they told me how dangerous it'd be for you. After I found out about you, I had to find you. I looked for you, and all my questions brought Moriarty to town. It’s my fault that piece of shit found you here. I should have listened. After he showed up, they  _ had _ to tell me everything. I’d already discovered the garden. Well, actually it called to me.

"I found you by accident. I saw you play. I didn’t know it was you I was looking for. One night a few years back, I went to a college party you were playing at. I knew, but didn't know. I felt a connection watching you play because you played like me. I started going places where you played. Finally, Uncle Greg had to tell me who you were just to keep you safe. I stayed away. Still, Moriarty figured it out. And when your family died…”

His eyes were down, and I waited for him to continue. Instead, he rolled up like a cocoon in front of me. He just pulled up into himself. Then he sniffed, and I knew he was crying. I wiped a tear off my cheek too.

I could blame him. I could blame a lot of people. Myself, for one. I knew how Sean felt because I felt the same. I still couldn't forgive myself that I wasn't home, that I wasn't dead. Some days I wished I’d died with them. 

We both sat in grass, the magic of the garden between us. Both sets of parents gone. The only way I'd ever know my birth parents was from this man sitting tied up in knots on the ground with a blade of grass between his teeth. I thought I should ask him who I resembled most, Mom or Dad, or if one of them liked peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches like me. 

Sean slid his legs out straight, and I saw his reason for sitting with his legs crossed against his chest. Guess that runs in the family, too. He blushed and stood up.

I brushed off the seat of my jeans and checked my arms: no scratches left, just dried blood. “You don’t need forgiveness. But you do need a bath and so do I.”

We walked out of the garden and down the path back to the house. Before we walked into the back door, Sean turned to me.

"You’ve known Smith a long time. Is he seriously interested in me, or am I just fun to fuck with?"

"He's pretty particular. I mean— he doesn't sleep around."

I probably shouldn't encourage this relationship, but seeing the disappointment in his face, I added, "He's interested. He told me you had a really cute ass."

The screen door shut behind us.Toby looked at us expectantly.

 


	13. The Community

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, you are introduced to the secret society, The Community. You also get a look inside of the Lestrade home and the inner workings of John's "new" family.
> 
> Thanks to MrBotanyB for the wonderful help on this chapter.

Real life masquerading as a dream, that's what it was. Or maybe the other way around.

I stepped behind Sean, struck by this great circular foyer that was so different from the back entrance of the house. This was no simple Michigan farm house. I wondered who built it and when. Four long windows on the concave wall cast long, dense light beams, intersecting at the bottom step of this grand staircase. Its dark banisters began at the bottom floor and spiraled up toward where Sean pointed. 

Toby jumped up on Sean. He licked his hand, then Sean laughed and scratched him behind his ears.

"I'll take you up to your room. I imagine Sherlock's there. If you’d like, I can take Toby out for a walk. It would give you and Sherlock some time to talk." 

As I walked up to the bottom of the staircase, my eyes strained to make out the finials. Not until I was close enough to actually touch them did I recognize the carvings' pattern, obscured by layers of varnish. My fingertips ran along the fluid grooves and ridges of the banisters, feeling the shapes and textures.

Leaves. Stems. Thorns.

Roses sculpted in cool wood with finely hewn ridges, the petals and vines winding up the railing. The spindles were carved vines, winding around and down, each spindle unique. 

The massive staircase wound gracefully in a wide semicircle. A runner covered the center of the staircase with a surreal kaleidoscope of patterns. At my feet, the worn carpet of scarlet, indigo, flecks of burgundy with flowing lines of gold and black. The rug groaned with every step, as alive as the roses in the garden.

At the top, the mahogany railing splayed open, facing north and the opposite direction of where we began at the bottom of the staircase. Two steps from the top, I wondered which of the doors he was behind. 

A heavy mahogany door with brass knob and keyhole guarded the top like a sentry. Passing the other, lesser doors,we followed the curve around the open stairwell until we’d come full circle. Each door stood like a dutiful soldier, shut tight guarding its post. We turned right and around, following the same colorful runner covering the hardwood floors like some magic carpet. On the opposite side from the door at the top was another door, a mirror image of the sentry, slightly ajar. 

Not until that moment did I realize how anxious I was to be near Sherlock, to see his smile and hear his deep voice. I needed familiar. 

Toby found him. He scratched on the door and it opened. Toby barked and ran over to the six-sided floor-to-ceiling window frame. With another bark, he jumped onto the inset bench and curled up on the faded teal cushions. 

There was Sherlock and everything from my dream— that frayed rug on the floor, the same mystical pattern on the stairs—all had come to life. Filtered light from the oriel window made lacy patterns across the hardwood floors and stretched to where Sherlock knelt in front of an old maple dresser, putting away our clothes. He glowed. 

Light played off his curls as he raised his head. He smoothed out the top shirt and giving it one last pat, stood up with a worried smile. He walked over and sat down on a large four-poster bed. I was happy, so happy to be near him. 

My dreams about him in the garden returned: that same bed and Sherlock. He pulled me down on that same quilt. Those big hands that the light gently caressed also caressed me. That soft bed. His firm grasp.

It was all happening like my dream: All Sherlock needed to do to make it come true was kiss me. 

He did. In seconds he was hard in my hand with the heat spreading in our veins like those vines in the garden. Sean still stood at the door, and I couldn’t give a fuck. 

My cock grew stiff, my face grew hot. As light from the bow windows flickered across his face, I didn't know if my garden images of Sherlock were mirages or memories or wishes. Did it matter? All I needed to do was touch the flesh and blood Sherlock, and it would all be real.

Sean called to Toby, who was better at discretion than his master and I. Sean took Toby for a walk and shut the door behind them. 

He brushed his hand across my crotch where my come-dried jeans were sticking to me. Part of me wanted to stop and tell him about the garden. Possibly to share with him the passion of that moment, and possibly to make sense of this insanity. 

Sherlock pointedly ignored my dried come. I didn’t speak until I saw the question in his eyes. 

"I saw you— in this room." 

For the first time, I understood Sherlock’s dependence on drugs. My body craved. The roses' fragrance called to me like morphine. It was terrifying. Even with the windows shut, their addictive attributes enslaved me. I rolled off the bed and found myself staggering like a drunk toward the bow window, eyes fixed the garden below. Sherlock's worried smile turned to a pained frown as he helped me sit down on the window seat.

"I saw you from this window," he said. "You were on the ground for longer than last time, and Mycroft wouldn’t let me out there.” He held his anger inside but vibrated with it. 

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Is it that important that you become  _ inoculated _ ?" he paused, and his perfect lips quivered a bit. "Important for whom? Important for Lestrade? Important for Mycroft? For me? You think you’re doing it for me.  _ Don't. _ Don't because I don’t like what it’s doing to you. What I saw down there, the way those roses grabbed at you, like some obscene caress."

He seethed with jealousy and torment. 

"I know they have other reasons,” I said. “I know that. But what if something does happen? I don’t care what I have to go through if I can save someone I love. I'm not doing it  _ just _ for you. It's for me. I'm not going to lose you or anyone else."

As my fingers parted the thin yellowed lace curtains to peek out, a familiar specter leapt into my brain. Sherlock. 

"It’s changing you," he said, as he sat down next to me. 

"I know you don’t like that. But it isn’t changing who I am, just how I see the world.” 

“Just a second ago, when you touched this curtain, something happened. My God. I know what you saw! Me. It was me!" 

We both knew what was in the other’s head— we saw it, felt it. If I hadn’t felt his fear, he would have denied it.   


"Mycroft brought us here to be safe, but that doesn’t mean he believes them. Doing this won’t make you safe. It’s not some family rite of passage. It won’t protect you. We need logic. We need to think, to have a plan. That garden isn’t a plan, John, it’s an uncontrolled experiment."

Sherlock rested his back against the window frame. 

How could I explain something I didn't even understand?

"This supernatural connection has a cost," he said. 

I was so tired. Mentally gone. 

"You’re right. It does. But it’s worth it. And it’s not like I can abuse it. I can’t even control it. It's not like I can look into some crystal ball and know it all.”

Sherlock nodded. “I always trusted your insights. But looking back, those hunches…”

I scratched my nose and yawned. "And you're right about the hunches, but I'm damn good at denying the truth. I didn’t see you loved me. I didn’t  _ see _ any of this, but that doesn’t mean I’d like to take it back!”

Sherlock interrupted, "I don’t want you to take it back. It’s giving more that concerns me. John,  you're so honest sometimes you forget that other people aren’t." 

“And you see conspiracies everywhere. It’s just a gut feeling, but I believe that for the  _ most _ part Lestrade's telling the truth. But you're right not to trust him."

“Or his family.”

"Or Mycroft,” I added.

But I don't think Sean was hiding anything. He seemed genuine and worried about me. He blamed himself. 

“Sean said he didn't know about me until a few years ago. He told me his questions brought Moriarty here.”

“John, do you really believe that you both grew up in the same town, and he never knew you only lived only a few miles away from each other?” 

I closed my eyes. So tired of lies.

"You know, I wonder how much my parents knew," I continued. "You think that’s why they’re dead, don’t you? And Sean's parents... You knew, didn't you? You knew his parents were dead. All that Internet searching— You didn't have to protect me. You should have told me as soon as you found out."

I sighed. I slowly opened my eyes. He leaned into me, kissing me softly on the lips, straddling my legs. 

"With it being so much like your own parents' death, I didn't want to tell you," he said. Sherlock sat down, pulled his legs up and laid them across on the bench, his bare feet in my lap.

"Nothing makes sense. Nothing except you." 

Sherlock shifted his hips.

I wanted him. 

His mouth curved into one of his devilish, I-know-what-you're-thinking smiles. Latching on to that moment, I sucked in a deep breath and thought about licking that smile off his lips.

This lust was part of the hunger left over from the garden, but I didn't care. Even now, I was using sex to avoid real questions. Sherlock had me right from the start, even before this mess with the roses: I was always avoiding the hard questions.

I thought that telling him I loved him would dispel any anxieties he had, but that touch of the curtain forced me to feel Sherlock's doubts. All his misgivings as he watched me in the garden came forward. He was still afraid, but it was a different fear. That he’d lose me to the rose. To this place. Instead of answering his doubts, I fed them. He wasn't just worried about Sean and others lying to _ me _ , he was worried I was lying to  _ myself _ . After all, I was so good at it. 

Veiled by the curtain, the garden resembled an Impressionist painting. Roses blurred into sanguine dabs of paint, prominent below a blue stain of sky, tinting the shadows below with a hint of red.  Bright yellow dandelions scattered gold on top of broad strokes of greenery.  No longer malevolent, I saw now, but a refuge. I wished Sherlock could see it as I did.   


His hands moved deftly, unzipping my jeans. He touched the spot there where he made me come in my dreams. I knew he couldn't resist; I couldn't either. I rocked into his hand, shuddering and bucking in hedonistic pleasure. _ Time, _ I thought,  _ in time he'd see. _

Then my heart twisted, wondering if we'd be granted that time.

He sucked my tongue into his mouth and I groaned. His hands pulled my jeans and boxers down to my knees, thumbs caressing the inside of my ticklish thighs. I dug the toe of my right tennis shoe into the heel of my left, forcing it off— flop onto the floor. Sherlock's lips left my mouth briefly while he concentrated on undressing me. He flung off my other shoe and stood up, removing my jeans and throwing them in a heap on the hardwood floor. 

As he stretched out next to me and took off his shirt, I still could have stopped him. Talked to him. Reassured him somehow. But instead, I let him continue. He stripped off his own jeans, slipping the lube out of his pocket. All heat. He licked his lips. 

He grabbed my knees, sliding me down and pulling them apart. My hips were flat against the cushions, my head and shoulder up and against the window casing. He spread my knees apart farther, bending them into me. He sat between my legs, his cock pointing in just the right direction. Fuck. He hesitated and I nodded. I leaned forward and his cock brushed my ass. Blood rushed from my head to my cock. 

Until then, it had been me. 

I smoothed the lube onto my hand while he devoured my mouth. His cock was red, hard and eager as my hands grasped him. He looked impossibly beautiful with the light from the window dappled across his cheekbones and his curls burnished black and auburn. His breath came ragged, and he thrust into my hand, circling his hand around mine. My cock ached, now painfully hard and bobbing up and down against his belly. His stomach glistened from my precome. 

His mouth broke from mine, and picking up the lube, he smeared some liberally on his fingers. While his tongue swiped inside my mouth, he tormented me, circling my anus with his long, slick fingers. Dipping slowly inside me, he methodically stretched me. 

Of course he knew how new this was for me and drew it out. I whimpered and moaned, then Sherlock sat up and laughed— one of his deep lusty guffaws.   


"What's so fucking funny?" I hiccupped as he pushed his thumb and forefinger into me harder. 

"You aren't going to cry again, are you?" he asked, inching in and stretching me open.

"Probably," I moaned.

"Good."

In my jacked-up, worked-up mind, what he said made perfect sense. I tried to sit up when he removed his fingers and shoved the tip of his cock into me. 

Instead, he pulled my legs up higher and they shook as I felt my muscles clench in my bowels as he slipped inside me deeper and deeper. God, he was splitting me apart and I loved it! Inside me, filling me, completing me. I didn’t breathe again until I felt his balls slap against my ass. I grabbed his arms and pulled him into me, thrusting my hips. I raised my knees higher, his wicked tongue wet in my ear.

My arms braced me best I could, my mouth against his neck, moaning and whimpering and begging. Trying so hard not to cry. I was doing well— until Sherlock whispered, "Come for me" into my ear. The tingle of his hot breath and the beating lights and atomic sparks made my heart love him all the more. He was brilliant! Why hadn’t we done this before? I wanted all of him. Now. 

No more gradual build up, no more slow deliberate motions. I pushed into him, balls slapping and my head crack-crack-cracking against the window frame. I lifted my legs, and he hit that spot, making me cry out and my insides ignite. Each time his cock slammed into me, I was reduced to a quivering mass. All pleasure and pain. I locked my quivering legs up and around his waist as he pumped into me harder and faster— his breaths in sharp, staccato bursts. Almost there. Blood rushed in my ears. 

"God, Sherlock!" I came hot and dirty, my juices smearing him as he pushed into me. I could feel my ass contracting, milking his cock.

His deep voice called my name and he came. 

The sun warmed the left side of my face while Sherlock's cheek warmed my right. We rested against each other. I unfolded a bit and hooked my legs around the backs of his calves. I didn't want to move. Just remain tied up and in love and spent with Sherlock on top of me.

His upper lip looked so sensual with tiny beads of perspiration, I could have sworn they were calling out to me— so I flicked my tongue along his upper lip.

"Now I think you  _ have  _ gone crazy,"  he said.

"Oh, shut up. My turn to laugh. Don't move, you're spoiling the moment. I want to keep this feeling the rest of my life _. _ "

"Mmm, sounds like a great fantasy."

“I have lots of fantasies.”

“Oh? Tell me...”

"You might have to tie me up to get it out of me."

"John, you kinky guy."

"But seriously, my fantasies— they all have to do with you. Dreaming about you—"

"Speaking of dreaming..."

"The garden? Yeah, you know. Maybe I  _ am _ a bit crazy," I said. "I admit, for someone who’s premed I don't understand a lot of what's going on in my body. I feel like a teenager when I'm near you; God, all I want is sex, sex, sex. That's confusing enough. Well, at least up until we fuck each other's brains out. Then I'm not confused at all. Makes perfect sense. Other times... "

I took a deep breath, curling a wisp of his hair at the nape of his neck around my finger.

"Sherlock, I know details about people, my hunches. I've always been able to do that since I can remember. But wasn’t anything I could control. Since this,  _ sometimes _ I can. And it's not just little flashes of insights or pebbles in a pond. It's like boulders. When I touched this curtain, I saw what you saw. That's  _ never _ happened before. I’ve felt what you’ve felt during sex, but not…”

“You saw through my eyes when I looked at you in the garden.”

“And I felt it. Everything.” 

He didn’t seem surprised. 

“Don’t be unsure,” I said and took his hand. 

Our eyes looked down on the garden, recalling what Sherlock witnessed— vines like barbed tentacles caressing me. My other hand reached out again to the curtain. 

"What do you see now?”

“I don’t see anything. I feel us, brushing against the curtain. More than sex. Us." Sighing, I squeezed his hand. "Feel isn't the word— it's hard to explain."

"Explain, John. I want to know."

"It's like colors and touch and sound together. An explosion. When we kiss," I said, brushing my lips lightly to his. "I wish you could experience what  _ that  _ just felt like."

"I just did. And it felt pretty damn good."

"That's  _ exactly _ what I mean. I know what it feels like for you, too. I feel you feel me. I’m sure."

"Sure?"

"Sure about us— not just for today or tomorrow." I kissed him again, hoping that maybe he could see into me just a little bit.

\-------------------------------------------

We'd fallen asleep tangled together when a tap at the door woke us. Sean called out "dinner," making me wonder why I’d ever want to pull away from Sherlock's warm body. Who needs food? Sherlock yawned wide as his stomach growled, answering my question. I mused on how I'd become Sherlock's willing pupil, stuck together with his instructor. God, this felt so right— and only a few weeks ago I would have been shocked by all that I've learned from my dear teacher, not just about pleasing and being pleased, but about what I am, and what I want to become. 

Shit, if I was even halfway coherent down there in the garden, I would have been terrified. Instead I felt fulfilled.

I nuzzled a bit closer again, trying to get more of his warmth.

Sean tapped on the door again. He opened the door a crack and Toby raced through. I groaned and answered, "We'll be there in a minute." 

I thought, maybe I should shower, but I didn't want to wash away our love just yet. Being a bit crusty until after dinner was like a naughty little secret. 

Toby jumped on our bed and made himself at home. 

I reluctantly got dressed. Opening the door, Sean waited for us at the head of the stairs.

"I was beginning to wonder if you two were ever coming out." 

I laughed.

As we descended the stair, my stomach let me know I’d been neglecting it— the roast pork, fresh baked bread, and apple pie mingled with the ever present roses. I was damn hungry. Enough to eat pork. I always got heartburn eating pork. Maybe I wouldn’t any more.

Sherlock excused himself to the bathroom, and I followed Sean into the dining room. Everyone was seated and waiting. Heads up. Looking. Glenda gave me a small haunted smile like she was ashamed. Dressed in a simple floral sundress, she looked so young, innocent. 

Uncle Gregory (must get used to calling him that) stood and pulled out a chair for me. Stepping away just before my hand neared his. Always keeping that distance. I was keenly aware of this distance, always afraid of the possibility of my touch— afraid of what I might see? a branding snapshot into his soul? Further proof that he's hiding something from me? 

Touching the chair, I got no sense of him left behind. Fuck this extrasensory shit inside me that comes like a whim. I sat, carefully unfolding the napkin in my lap, pretending not to notice the long, uncomfortable silence that slapped me in the face. I'd walked in on one of those moments...where you know you were being talked about just before you stepped into the room. 

I stole a glance at Mycroft, who arched back in the chair, feigning disinterest. Hell, the tension was so hot that it left burn on my cheeks from the imprint. 

Sherlock bounced in, breaking the spell. 

“John! They have bees!”

“What?”

“I saw the hives outside the windows when I was in the washroom!”

"After dinner Sean can show you the colony, but for now let's eat first," said Glenda. 

Sherlock reluctantly took a seat as my uncle bowed his head in silent prayer.

We passed our dishes to Glenda and my uncle served. As usual, Sherlock had little appetite, and the possibility of inspecting hives distracted him further. He sat next to me and cut up bits of roast and pushed them from one side of the plate to the other. I, on the other hand, was famished and cut big, tender chunks and shoveled them in with potatoes dripping in rich gravy. 

I looked up, and Mycroft's icy eyes regarded me from across the table. Immediately Sherlock noticed the stare and started snarling at his brother. No choice, I had to step in before the war of words started.

"How long have you lived here?" I asked Glenda, who sat on the other side of Sherlock.

"I had this place built years ago—around 1814." 

Sherlock dropped his fork on the plate with a clang. 

"How old are you?" Sherlock asked.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you that it's impolite to ask a woman her age?" she laughed.

“No,” Sherlock said, looking at Mycroft, “she didn’t.”  Sherlock turned his attention to Glenda, his disbelief turning to awe. He glanced over to me, and I could see his complex mind calculating the changes my aunt and uncle had seen, the history they'd lived, the incredible stories they must hold.

"Don't feel bad,” she said. “I don't count anymore. Let's just say I'm much older than this house. Much, much older."

“I don’t feel bad,” he said. “I assumed you were old, just not that old. In most women, 40s and 50s mark the cessation of fertility. Sean told John he’s eighty-nine years old. That’s over a fifty-year gap between children.”

“My, you are a snarky one!” Then she sat forward conspiratorially and whispered to him, “We’re fertile for a very long time but our window for conception is narrow.”

 

“Sherlock, this is not appropriate dinner conversation,” Mycroft said, turning to Glenda. “Do forgive him. Mummy did teach him manners, he just chooses to ignore her lessons.”

“Mycroft, are you going to finish the  _ entire  _ pork roast? What, no dinner rolls? Here, have the basket. And what about more gravy for that pile of potatoes?” Sherlock said haughtily.

"I was wondering about some of the antiques—” I said, changing the subject fast, “especially the staircase in the back. All hand-carved. It's beautiful."

"Oh, yes. That staircase is old— much older than this house. We had it brought here from one of our first homes overseas," she said.

I watched as she concentrated on cutting her meat up in delicate bits. She was being intentionally vague, and I wasn't sure why. 

Sherlock didn’t let it pass. “And where would that be?” 

 

"Germany, France, Scotland.”

“Do you have any other homes in the states?" I asked.

"Yes," said Lestrade. "I don't reside here most of the time. This is Glenda's home for the most part. I live near Chicago. Sean has been there many times."

Sean nodded and drank his iced tea. I sipped mine, wrinkling my nose. Not enough sugar and too much lemon for my taste. While Mycroft watched in horror, Sherlock dumped two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his tea and swirled the mixture with his finger. The ice cubes tinkling on the side of the glass echoed in that big old dining room.

"We have other places, too. Summer and winter homes. Some near, some far."

Now that was  _ really _ vague. 

Tired of small talk, I set my fork on my plate. Now was as good as anytime to ask. "The first time I came here delivering the roses, you  _ meant _ for me to get stuck with a thorn," I stated. "Taking me out in the garden. It was all planned. And what happened after, with my car? What was that? Was Sean there or not?"

"I was worried, so I followed you," Sean admitted. "I called the ambulance  _ and _ Uncle Greg." He sat forward toward me in his seat and tears were in his eyes. "When I saw your car, well, I thought you were dead— and when you weren't in it, I...I thought Moriarty had you. I found the card. Opened it. I heard the ambulance and left.”

“You left?!” Sherlock said, disgusted.

“I know, but I didn’t know what to do. I called Uncle Greg. It wasn’t until the ambulance went to the neighbor’s farm that we realized you’d stumbled over to that old farmhouse."

“You left, and you didn’t look for him? As if that isn’t inexcusable enough, you put the card in his guitar case and messed with his head.”

"I felt bad about that," Sean admitted, turning to me, "tricking you to come back here with that card, but it was the only way we could think of to get you back here. We figured you'd return it, either out of obligation or curiosity."

"I don’t know,” Sherlock said, bitterly. “There’s always the direct approach. Tell him who he is. What you want with him. But no. Subterfuge! Machinations! That’s your way, isn’t it, Mycroft? That always the case whenever my brother is involved.”

He had been sloshing his iced tea in circles as he spoke, and the ice in his glass had melted down enough for the tea to be drinkable. He took four gulps, then the glass slipped from his hand to the table. Clunk. It didn't spill, but he had everyone's attention.

"How many times does John have to go out into the garden? And why are you even here? Is immortality in season?" 

I almost laughed. Almost. I willed myself to meet my uncle's stare. 

"Or is it that John needs to be  _ indoctrinated.  _ Yes, that’s a better word for going out into the garden like some kind of rite of passage. Is there some other euphemism you  _ 'immortals'  _ use for this process?" he asked sarcastically. 

"Human sacrifice, more like," I said. I was with Sherlock on this. It wasn't the process that had me irked. It was all this manipulation to get me here and into the garden the pissed me off.

"Bloodletting," said Lestrade. "I suppose you could refer to it as that. Although not entirely accurate, since John called on the roses. I've never seen the roses do that before. I was shocked when I witnessed it." 

"You're saying that this is all John’s fault?" Sherlock asked. “Yes, blame the victim.”

"From what Sean told us, it was even more spectacular earlier today," Lestrade said.

"I wouldn't call it spectacular; I'd call it terrifying," Sherlock said under his breath.

I noticed Sean nodding, agreeing with Sherlock.

"What happens to a regular person who gets stuck with one of those thorns?" I asked, curious.

"Usually nothing," said Glenda. "With a few sensitive individuals, they'll have a reaction. Become ill, some seriously. There's a theory in the Community that individuals who are sensitive to the rose are part of our bloodline—removed many generations, never influenced by the rose."

"The Community," Sherlock said, echoing Glenda's capital-C pronunciation. “Now we have it. The machinations. Who’s the mighty architect? Mycroft? I suppose that’s some secret organization you’ve a hand in, yes?”

"A secret organization," Mycroft confirmed. "In the beginning, the Community was made up of mortals.”

“Who knew about us,” Lestrade continued. “They helped to keep us secret. We formed an alliance: we helped them gain power, they gave us anonymity. People had different reasons for joining the Community. Some were scientists and scholars, seeking knowledge. Some just wanted power.”

“Little brother, I am a part of this organization, but not because I seek power.”

“No, but you’ve done little to rein them in,” Lestrade said with a hint of contempt in his voice. "For hundreds of years, they were benign, just watching us. Then they got curious and asked. Now they often take. With this new leadership, the Community is becoming more and more meddlesome. Men like Moran were hired."

“I have no control of that faction. As much as we’ve tried to make them see reason,” Mycroft said. “They are meddlesome.”

"Meddlesome is being too kind," said Glenda, eyes burning into Mycroft across the table.

"I thought Moran was only a hired gun. He didn't say he belonged to the organization. He didn't say he worked for you," I said to Mycroft.

"He worked for them and followed their orders. That means  _ belonged _ ," Mycroft looked pointedly at Glenda. "He later worked for Moriarty. I am sworn to them also, but that does not mean I agree with all they do."

"Orders are orders," she snorted.

"The Community's leader is a made immortal," Sean said to me.

"You mean like Moriarty?" I asked.

"Yes, made immortal, but no, he's  _ not _ like Moriarty. He has a moral code," Mycroft said.

Glenda laughed into her iced tea. “And we know exactly who that is, don’t we?”

“Mycroft!” As soon as I said it I knew it was true.

"What moral code is that?" she asked. "The one where you kidnap innocent people and take what you want from them? You're no different from Moriarty in that respect." 

"They are left unharmed," Mycroft replied.

"Unharmed?" Sherlock sputtered, pointing at Glenda. "You aren’t any better! Just because John doesn't have a scar left on the outside doesn't mean there was no harm in what you did."

"I did not sanction the attack on John. There is another faction, however, which thought it necessary."

"Why?" I asked, bitterly.

Mycroft chewed his roast, staring thoughtfully at Sherlock, then at me. 

This dinner conversation wasn't good for my digestion. My stomach hurt. Or maybe it was just the pork.

"There is much going on here you do not yet understand," Mycroft explained. "Your uncle and aunt aren't untarnished either. Hiding what they are often comes at a high cost." 

"As in human lives?" I asked.

"Many of their people believe no mortals should know their secret. They feel the Community was a mistake. It's true that history has proven that those they trusted often turned on them, trying to destroy what they are. Now, no mortal who knows what they are is safe."

"My God," I said. "My parents." I instinctively grabbed Sherlock's hand under the table. 

"Yes," Mycroft answered.

"Hey, wait one moment," Sean said. "We had nothing to do with your family's death, John. The Community was behind that."

"The Community had _ nothing  _ to do with their deaths," Mycroft said, vehemently. "Maybe you people sitting here had nothing to do with their deaths, but you are fools to think your _ kind  _ had nothing to do with it."

Secrets.

Mortals. Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson. They knew. God, what will happen to them? 

"Excuse me," I said. 

I ran to the bathroom and threw up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Sherlock works on a plan while John plays on stage and in leather (again) and a creepy encounter with Moriarty.


	14. Self Preservation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rock and Roll with a Great Game twist, and John finds out more about his past than he really wants to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to MrBotanyB who messaged with me back and forth on google to get this chapter just right. It was tricky pulling off the allusion to the Great Game in a bar bathroom instead of a swimming pool! Thanks for the feedback and helping me out. 
> 
> Between us, I think we came up with a truly suspenseful and believable scene.

My head ached, and my stomach lurched— the dinner conversation would never leave my brain. All the secrets, all the half truths. What kind of plan could we possibly come up with to keep everyone I cared about safe?

As the steam from the hot water condensed on the mirror, I slid down farther into the big old claw-foot tub.

I thought a long, hot bath seemed the best remedy to ease my tensions, but it didn’t.  I tried my best to get the worst-case scenarios steamed out of my head, but leaving Sherlock even for a moment made my fists clench and my stomach knot. If Sherlock couldn’t come up with a plan soon, I’d have to give Moriarty what he wanted. Me.

He’d forgive me. He forgives me everything.

Soaking in water opened my pores to let in ideas and possibilities that wouldn’t come. I plunged my head under and held my breath.

Time stopped and underwater all I saw behind my eyelids was red. Like his lips, like the roses, like my blood. Mine to derive the serum. My history. My line. The Community and people like Moriarty took it from immortals like me, harvesting us like some crop, and I was the new exotic strain. The door squeaked and I splashed out from under the water. Arms crossed in concern, Sherlock wiped the steamy mirror with the back of his hand, then sat down on the commode next to the old cast iron sink.

“You were thinking so hard that your thoughts were breaking windows in my Mind Palace,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “That and I had to see you naked in this tub. Nice view.”

He really should be arrested for the sinful way he purses his pouty heart-shaped lips.

“As much as you like believe you know how I think, I know you better,” I said. “You need a plan that doesn’t include yourself as bait.”

“And yours doesn’t need to include handing yourself over to Moriarty.” He stood up and sat on the edge of the tub. “I have come to a few conclusions.”

“You’re trying to distract me, but that’s good, because I love hearing your conclusions.”

“Yes, I know you do,” he said, grinning wide. “John, why would the power to heal be important to someone who could live forever?”

Obviously, mortal people would envy and distrust those who live forever. That was why immortals kept themselves secret. They weren't completely indestructible. Exposed as immortals, they were probably killed and hunted in the past— at least that's what I assumed from the comments made at dinner. People fear what they don't understand. What better way to gain the average man's trust than to be able to give some gift in return?

Cheating death. Yes, since my blood helped Moriarty cheat death, others would want the same and not a chosen few. Maybe that's what they wanted from me. A chance to come out in the open.

It would be the immortal's version of coming out of the closet. But they could get that from any immortal. Why me?

“I have unusual properties that they want. Moriarty implied he hated his flat existence.”

“Yes, exactly. But why would someone desire to feel pain?”

“It has to get dull not feeling. But I can’t say that’s a bad trade off. What good is living forever if you've got to hide? This really sucks, but I can see how a healing touch would be a valuable bargaining chip.”

”Moriarty and the Community aren't benevolent; they wouldn't bestow the gift on mankind.”

“So, you don’t think that’s it.”

“Right. We do know other powers come with it, such as second sight.” Sherlock said, dipping his hand into the water and touching my inner thigh. “This is very distracting...you all flushed and wet and prone.”

I splashed him a bit. “It’s pretty big. The tub, I mean.”

“Yes, it is, but _think,_ John. You have stated psychometry and prophecy is not something that you can control.”

“It can’t be that.”

“Exactly. This is more than curiosity on Mycroft and the Community's part. Power and control is what men seek and what Moriarty desires. Do not misunderstand me: there isn’t much difference between Moriarty and the Community.”

“Yes, just that the Community is subtle and more polite.”

“Therefore, I have to believe that there is a power you have not acquired yet. That was why you were brought here. Why they’re so invested in your continuing to go out into the garden.”

Power. How ironic that I felt so powerless when they sought me for the power they wanted.

I slipped under the not-so-hot water, head and all. This time eyes wide open, watching bubbles float up and burst like atomic explosions before my eyes as they reached the surface. I held my breath. Why? Why hold it? I can't die. Swirling ribbons of water, bending my perception, stopping time— they paralleled my life. Dreamlike. Above the tub my Sherlock, distorted and foreign. My lungs burned as the last bit of oxygen left and carbon dioxide filled my every cell. Stay under. After all, I can't drown, _I can't drown_. Brutally forcing myself to stay below, I reasoned that drowning was no different than being buried alive except you can see the light.

Was that good or bad? I panicked and gulped water.

Sherlock yanked me out, and I broke the surface choking. Water splashed on the floor and drenched him from head to toe. I wasn’t sure if I'd won or lost.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he said, shaking me then clutching at me like I was actually able to die. “Any idiot with medical knowledge knows that rising levels of CO2 signal the body to breathe and ensure unconscious and autonomous respiration.”

Only Sherlock. He then insisted that I was self-harming. Me. Not him. A grand role reversal.

He helped me dry off, then we went upstairs with Sherlock yammering all the way.

Half listening to his rant, I got ready. Our band had another gig tonight. Problem was, Sherlock wanted to come, but Mycroft had said no. That was what half his yammering was about. Glenda advised against it, and I agreed it was dangerous, but Sherlock, the self-centered son of a bitch, was convinced only he could protect me from Moriarty. And then there was all that ranting about me trying to “not” drown myself in the tub. I told the mad genius and huge horse’s ass it was just an experiment— he should understand that more than anyone. No-ooo. Even trying to entice him with beehives didn’t work. He acted like an eight year old and spent a good two hours wheedling and whining and convincing. In the end, we threw up our arms: He’d find a way to get there without us anyway, so he might as well come with us. Besides, how safe was he in this house? Even though I felt my aunt and uncle wouldn't harm Sherlock, I didn't think creepy vines would stop Moriarty.

I did believe Sherlock was the only one smart enough to stop Moriarty. Mycroft and my uncle were coming along more as bodyguards tonight, which made little sense. First: Mycroft in a bar?  In his three-piece Paul Smith suit? Laughable. No one I knew could be more out of place. Second, neither of them looked tough enough to stop someone like Moriarty, his men or Moran. Seriously, Mrs. Hudson and her rolling pin could take care of Sherlock better than they could. Finally, their continued reluctance to divulge their true motives made them impossible to trust. Mycroft oversees enough secret intelligence communities that he's probably seen in Area 51.

I thought about canceling. After last night, I should be jazzed to play again, but now my music seemed so unimportant.. All could think of was Sherlock. When I said this, Sherlock threw his shoe across the room and went downstairs to talk to Sean.

He came back up to the bedroom while I was trying to finish getting dressed. His head down, he watched me from under his dark eyelashes as I struggled with my stage clothes. Problem was I'd have to wear the same black leather pants, blue jeans or these ugly red leather ones that Mary gave to me as a joke in that last bag of hand-me-down clothes. Bill fucking insisted that I wear leather pants on stage. He thinks that women come just to see my ass in tight leather. Personally, I think he's the one who likes my ass.

I struggled into the red leather. The pants were two sizes too small, and I sucked in what little gut I had to zip them up, flailing around prone on the bed and yanking the zipper.

Sherlock burst out laughing. "Your face is as red as those jeans. You’ll need more makeup."

"Damn it, stop laughing and help me," I said, struggling to stand and collapsing back down on the bed. "I don't care what Bill says, I'm not wearing these. I can't breathe in them. Shit, I can't even stand; It’s like a medieval torture device. I’ll never have children!"

"No underwear?" he observed. “Distinct possibility. Especially if that zipper gets caught.”

"Fuck," I said under my breath, praying he hadn't jinxed me so I’d snag my valuables.

Sherlock threw a sock at me. "Oh look, you forgot to put this in the front."

"Like it'd fit! Very funny, why don't you do something useful? Throw me my jeans."

He threw me the black-leather pants instead.

"I wore those last night."

"Since when do you care about fashion, Mister I-wear-the-same-oatmeal-sweater-everyday?"

Fuck. Now was that nice? I didn't even have my lucky sweater anymore— it burned in the fire.

Leather fetish. Sherlock was just like Bill. Me, I was into comfort. I missed my sweater. And those old hole-riddled jeans on the bed looked perfect to me. But…

Well, off with the frickin' red-leather Iron Maiden torture device and on with the black-leather kink. If they made Sherlock happy— why not?

I stood up and slipped them on, fastening the buttons.

"Your ass really does look good in those," Sherlock said, stalking around me like a tiger.

"Problem is, I'm not the only one who's admiring it all night long. But I guess I can stand having all those eyes lusting after you as long as I’m the only one who gets to touch what's inside."

"W-where’s my shirt?" I stuttered.

"That fishnet thing? What about this red leather vest?"

"What is it with you and leather?"

"Actually, I was going to ask you that question. I don’t own any leather clothes. I do have that crop though. What do you think about whips?" Sherlock pulled out the drawer. "Mmm, don't see any. Maybe we should put that on a list, or I could fetch mine."

"You're crazy," I said, putting on the vest, and I started for the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Sherlock reached around, handed me the eyeliner, and pinched my ass.

"Bill will be pleased," he said. "The sluttier the better as far as he's concerned."

\--------------------------------

With much restraint, we got to Adam’s Den. One of Mycroft’s men drove, and I spent the whole time keeping Sherlock's hands out of my pants. We were late. I raced to the front to talk to the crew, and Sherlock met up next to me, nodding as the sound man gave us instructions. Bill drilled us on minor play-order alterations. Shit, I loved the way Sherlock was rubbing my neck. I closed my eyes, not listening much at all, engrossed in his long fingers loosening my shoulders.

"Thanks," I sighed.

Almost time. Picking up our instruments...tuning...Sid, one of our sound men, walked the bar for our sound check. Thumbs up on our bass, lead and voices as they came through clear. He checked line of sight from the tables to the stage. The stage lighting in this bar got too bright for Alan, who had to wear sunglasses on stage to see. All part of set up.

I scanned the room, approximately 4,000 square feet with people lined up along the walls. The high ceilings and barnwood rafters that framed the large open space at the center gave the illusion of more space. No empty seats— a full house. Only the dance floor was empty. I heard Smith's nervous slapping on his bass. Jimbo's chatter behind me made me concerned: his drum sticks staccato tap, tap, tapping. He _never_ gets hyped before a show. Seemed _everyone_ in the band was rattled, all worried we might not be able to top last night's performance. Sean was tuning his guitar for the fourth time. At least watching Sherlock sucking his Triple Sec through a straw distracted me, but now I was worried about being worried. Sherlock was drinking.

I guess I needed to be the motherfucking cheerleader. Tonight I needed it as much as they did.

I teetered on the edge of the stage, turned facing the band and cleared my throat.

"Which way are we goin'?!" I shouted with my fist in the air.

"Up!" Bill and Smith cried out together arms pointing up. Jimbo's and Sean's heads popped up. The stage crew stopped and turned.

I waved to Anderson and Mary sitting with Irene and Sherlock at the front. Then in one clean leap, I jumped off the stage landing on their table as Sherlock held it steady. I made sure that I didn’t hit the lower drop ceiling near the stage. I turned to the band again and cupped my hands around my mouth, hollering: "I _said_... Which way are we going?"

"Up! Up!" John and Smith yelled back.

"And which way are we _failing_?!"

"Up-ward, up-ward, up-ward!" The band chanted. I swear they looked like kindergartners, dancing in a ring around Sean who hopped from foot to foot. The chant spread through the crowd. As soon as it reached the front doors, I leapt off the table back onto the stage.

"I think we're ready to play now, boys!" I yelled, swiping my guitar from the floor, my back to the crowd. I waved as wolf whistles and cheers erupted from the crowd and counted off with my fingers in the air. One. Two. Three.

Applause.

Yeah, I guess my ass _did_ look good.

I looked over my shoulder. Anderson, Mary and Irene waved. I smiled back; Sherlock sat, legs crossed and looking hot in his black jeans and purple Dolce and Gabbana shirt. He winked.

Mycroft and Lestrade sat a table over, which wasn't lost on Sherlock. He kept glaring back at them.

This was it. We were ready— just a bunch of smilin' assholes including Ol’ Bill the biggest smilin' asshole of them all. I suspected he never made it to bed last night— at least he didn't sleep.

Smith danced around, giddy and giggly.

" _Hello?_ Tommy Tutone?" Bill's gravelly voice broke into the mic. "Is _Jenny_ home?"

Sean began singing:

_Jenny, Jenny, who can I turn to?_

_You give me something I can hold on to._

_I know you think I'm like the others before_

_Who saw your name and number on the wall._

 

The rhythm, the vocal harmony, the back lights, the sweat. I needed this to purify me. Tonight was different than the night before. I was different; we were different. While last night was exhilarating, tonight was just plain fun. In the very first song, Sean had the crowd singing _867- 5309_ with him. The crowd loved us, and we loved them. Like Sherlock always said to me: The chemicals were mixed and about to explode. We mirrored the crowd's hoots and cheers. They loved it.

The first set zoomed by. I spent the whole first break having Sherlock try to feel me up under the table.

"He's in much better spirits tonight," said Mary. "Last night he looked like it was the end of the world. He’s drinking, but still on the same nasty brandy shit." Between rubbing my thigh, kissing my ear and watching Dr. Lestrade, Sherlock didn't seem to hear a word she said.

"What’s gotten into him. Drinking, dating, groping. You aren’t Sherlock. Aliens have invaded earth, and I think you’re one of them,” Irene said, adjusting the low-cut neckline of her slinky red off-shoulder dress. “Like in _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_.”

“What is that? Some porn film?" Sherlock said to Irene.

Sherlock hand slid up my leg and massaged my cock under the table. God, that felt good. Hard not to moan. I knew my face was hot and red by the way Irene cocked her eyebrow at us. Tables and clothes can hide a multitude of sins, but not these. The leather gave it all away and all would be revealed when I stood up.

"Would you stop staring at my brother! You can’t fuck him. He’s not into women!"

“What?” I said. I had no idea that Mycroft was ever into anything. I grabbed Sherlock’s hand and moved it to my knee. Not that I didn't like his attention, but it was almost time to go on stage, and I had to get some “not up” time.

Sherlock shifted his eyes to his brother’s table.

"He's not watching his nephew; he's watching us," he said.

"I noticed that too," said Irene. "I thought he was staring at me at first. I do look hot in this dress. Say, Sherlock, isn’t your family really rich? I hear that your brother has some swanky government job."

"I said he didn’t like women.”

“What are you so worried about then?” she joked. “I like Mycroft, but he had me kidnapped once and asked me all sorts of personal questions about you. He thought we were fucking.”

“Yes, he thinks he's my great protector," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"So he _is_ here for protection! From what? This sounds juicy,” Irene said, leaning into Sherlock with her cleavage. “His friend is handsome. Is he rich too?”

"That’s Dr. Gregory Lestrade,” Mary said. “I don’t know if he’s rich, but he’s kind of famous. Talks about computers and the universe. He wrote some book about it.”

“We're staying at his house." I added and Sherlock kicked me under the table.

“I'd think you'd want to be as far away from them and their house as possible," Mary remarked. "Why don't you both stay at my place?"

"No," I said sharply as Sherlock kicked me again. _"_ We need to stay there."

I shifted positions, and Sherlock palmed me again. Not fair. Anderson was figuring out what was up. Everyone would as soon as I stood. What the fuck did I need with a sock in my pants when I had Sherlock?

"The boys are calling," I said, blushing as I got up. Fuck, Irene was eye level with my crotch.

"Last night must have been a hell of a makeup session," Mary laughed.

The second set was better than the first. I started clapping at the crowd, and we took off from there. Vibes between songs were like bullet points we shared with the audience, but the real draw was Bill as the storyteller. During the middle of the set, he spun one of his trademark humorous anecdotes. He insists that my Sherlock stories are as good as his, but they’re too long and too gory for the stage. I looked over to see Mycroft and Lestrade pulling their chairs up to the front table with Sherlock and the rest.

I took another swig of beer as we got ready to play our last song before break. Sherlock’s eyes became the changing lights, shifting hues of greens and blues. A slow love song, “[Wild Horses](http://www.lyricsfreak.com/r/rolling+stones/wild+horses_20117886.html).” My eyes held his as I sang and meant it.

From the stage I could see that Anderson was getting pissed at Mary for flirting with Mycroft and Lestrade. Irene wasn’t flirting: she’d turned her full seduction mode on Lestrade.

It was the middle of the last verse when I noticed Sherlock's attention on the front doors. Moriarty. Watching us. I stopped. Like any good band, we each knew each other’s parts and all the lyrics. We loved tossing roles around and often swapped for fun. Not for fun this time. Sean took up the break in my voice like a professional. Sherlock watched Moriarty walk to the dark, back lounge near the bathrooms. Before the last bar of the song, Mycroft stood up.

With the last note, I put down my guitar and leapt off the stage.

"Ignore him," said Lestrade. "He won't try anything here."

"I’m not so sure," I said, pulling up the chair next to Sherlock. I dripped with sweat, wiping my brow with the back of my hand. As I watched him stand, arms crossed, Moriarty met my eyes, nodded, turned around and walked out the door with Mycroft and some of his men not far behind.

"He’s here to mess with our heads, yours in particular," said Sherlock. “We should go after him.”

“No. You’re staying here, and I have to play.”

Those few beers I had went right through me and the added excitement didn’t help. Shit, I didn't want to leave Sherlock. I had to go. Bad. I stood up, but Mycroft was headed back to the table.

Mycroft looked at his cellphone and nodded. ”He left.”

“Who are you talking about?” Mary said.

“My crazy fan. He was here but left,” I said. “I need…”

“...to urinate. Yes.” Sherlock got up to follow me.

"You don't need to hold my hand. You heard Mycroft, he's gone."

Sean walked up to the table to join us. I patted him on the back. I almost introduced him as my brother to Mary and Anderson, but I thought better of it. Not smart to let them know anything more. They knew too much already.

I went back the bathroom, getting more than the usual high fives and thumbs up, handshakes and prods.

A few girls followed me, squealing. Most were the regular groupies. All I needed was one more well-meaning fan patting me on the back or trying to kiss me, and I'd piss my pants where I stood.

I danced up and down in front of the urinal. Too many buttons on these fucking leather jeans.

As I finished, the hairs stood up on my neck. I only thought that happened in cheap novels, but I _felt_ him. I should have known he'd find me alone in the bathroom, the sick bastard. Mycroft’s men were shit at surveillance.

I turned to face him. He looked different— a puckered white scar creased his face from the center of his cheek to his jawline. His hair was spiked and unkempt. He looked thinner, if that was possible; what must have once been a form-fitting suit hung loosely from his shoulders.

He stepped closer.

"Everyone knows I'm in here," I said bluntly, walking over to wash my hands.

“Step away from him,” I heard Sherlock’s voice boom.

"How exciting,” Moriarty said, clapping his hands. “I wanted to have a few words with both of you and here you are!"

I stepped up to the sink and washed my hands. I looked into the mirror. There they both stood: Moriarty within an arm’s length and Sherlock four feet behind. I should have known Sherlock would follow me. I felt sick to my stomach.

"I've already had more than enough words with you to last a lifetime," I said, drying my hands, "now get out of here."

I stepped past him, and he grabbed my arm. Not again. My guts churned with recollections of the greenhouse.

“Let go of him,” Sherlock said, stepping forward, but then glanced away from me to the right, lips set in a grim line. A moment later I heard something as well. A quiet click.

" _I_ tell you when to move," Moriarty said, “and now is not a good time for _either_ of you.”

I twisted against Moriarty's grip, pushing him away until Sherlock's strangled "John" made me look up.

"He didn't come alone," he said, his voice tight. I followed his gaze toward the back of the room up at a narrow gap in the ceiling tiles where a corner tile had been shifted out of place. Confused, my eyes returned to Sherlock and saw the red dot dancing right over his heart. The bottom of my stomach fell out.

Moriarty released my arm.

“Ready for our little chat, are we?” he asked us, bouncing on his toes. "I thought that'd get your attention." He flicked my forehead with his boney fingers and laughed, then turned to Sherlock with a feral smile.

"Safe is such a subjective word, don’t you think? Is anyone ever _really_ safe?”

“You are a fool. One doesn’t need to feel safe. One needs to feel. Oh. That’s right. You can’t. Feel.”

“Sherlock, that’s not nice! John, you really should keep him on a shorter leash. You really can’t trust him not to run off and stick his handsome nose in our business. That’s another word: _trust._ Always so misplaced. No one to trust. They are all _lying_ to you. _All of them_. Dr. Lestrade, his family, and this one's brother. Come with me, and I promise you, Sherlock will be safe."

Sherlock stared open-mouthed at my forehead. His eyes flicked up to a bathroom stall behind him.

"If I do, how can you guarantee no one will hurt him?" I asked as I stared at the dancing red light.

“John, no!”

"I'll make an oath,” Moriarty said, “right here, right now, and I never break an oath.”

“John, do not do this! He’s not going to shoot me. Not here.”

“Oh, Sherlock! Yes, I will. You see, John, I'm the one person who will _always_ tell you the truth. I will kill him."

I was tempted to let him have me. Give up. Keep Sherlock safe. But I still had a healthy sense of self-preservation. I loved Sherlock, I'd give my life for him, but I didn't think an oath meant shit to Moriarty. And he was a fucking liar.

"You just expect John to walk out of here with you? We both know that’s not going to happen.”

He laughed. “Of course not _NOW_ ! I don’t want him _NOW_ . But I do _want_ him. And I will have him. John, you really have no choice.”

“Okay, you said what you wanted. Anything else you want to add?" I asked.

"You’ll come to me." He gave my arm a squeeze. His eyes locked to mine, and he knew I saw inside him.

The dot flickered off on Sherlock’s chest, and I let out the breath I’d been holding. He pulled away and walked out. Moriarty's voice echoed behind him as the door swung shut.

"You'll beg me, Johnny."

\-------------------------------

I kept my mouth shut about Moriarty when I went back to the table, but I couldn't hide it from Lestrade, who obviously saw I was shook up. Irene leaned forward in her seat, watching us both. Sherlock grabbed his brother and dragged him out the back door.

  
“I have a fucking headache," I said. Which was no lie. I had a raging one.

Lestrade stared at me. “What just happened?” he said. Sherlock was walking back with his brother already. Mycroft nodded to Lestrade, and Lestrade stood and followed him..

Sherlock took a seat next to mine and grasped my hand hard under the table.

“What’s going on?” Irene asked.

"Yeah, what happened?" Mary said. “Was it that fan?”

"Yeah, the weird fan is all,” I said as _you’ll beg me_ echoed in my ears. “I’ve just had a few problems. Nothing Mycroft can’t handle.” I hated lying. I sucked at it.

Fortunately, I had no time to think at all. It was time to begin our last set. I pushed my chair back and staggered up. Bill hopped up to the stage. Lestrade was still gone with Mycroft.

"You sure you're okay to play?" Sherlock asked.

"I've played in a lot worse shape than this."

"That's for sure," Mary laughed. "I could tell some stories."

Thank God for Mary, because Irene didn’t look like she was buying the obsessed fan story. I squeezed Sherlock's hand for good luck and stood up.

"Do you know what eleven shots of Tequila will do to a virgin?" she asked and laughed.

"Oh, God! Not that story," I said.

"He dances on top of the table here,” Mary said, leaning into Sherlock, “reenacts a dream where he wore a red tutu and pink tights, sings 'I Feel Pretty' at top of his lungs, and finishes by sticking his head under the table and throwing up in my purse."

"Fuck, don't remind me," I said. God, how many times did she have to tell that story?

"But the best part was the reprise: a drunken pirouette on top of this table, then he falls into the arms of that bouncer over there."

"He doesn't look like your type," said Anderson, nudging me.

Now that Mary had completely humiliated me in front of everyone, I thought I'd better get back on stage. Bill was tuning up.

Despite my hands shaking, I picked up my guitar and played. The first few songs I went through the motions, but then I got caught up in the addiction— thank God for Bill’s stage plotting, the applause, heat of the lights, vibration of the amps. It all came together, and we shredded it.

At the front table, they sat: my friends, an uncle I barely knew, my lover and his brother. Music coursed through my veins and strummed out in chords of lust, love and pain. Despite the earlier memory of a high-powered gun’s lasers trained on his heart, Sherlock coyly smiled at me over the rim of his glass, probably imagining me in a red tutu and tights. Or maybe mentally removing my leather outfit.

Falling into his smile as the blue and red lights strobed, I thought everything was going to be all right.

\------------------------------

The door shut to the bedroom. Sherlock backed me against the frame, pressing his thumbs hard into my hipbones. His mouth rushed for mine, his tongue lolling on my teeth and rolling playfully inside my mouth. My leather jeans gripped my cock like a hand as his dick urgently rubbed against mine.

I forgot everything. I only felt his touch.

"I've been waiting for this all night," he whispered, thumbs sliding in a vee, meeting at the base of my cock. "I want to taste you."

"God, yes," I moaned.

Slowly, he got down on his knees in front of me, both thumbs parallel, following my shaft up to the tip of my cock. I loved and hated that he enjoyed teasing me this way. He smiled as he pushed up the leather vest and licked my tummy. He took his time unfastening the top rivet of the leather jeans he loved. He winked at me, then looking down, he licked his lips as he undid the next rivet, exposing the head of my cock. He grinned up at me again like a fucking Cheshire Cat, teasing me with his eyes. Meandering his tongue down my belly, he looped around the head of my cock, tongue just brushing the tip.

My knees buckled. Pleased with my reaction, he took charge, pressing me firmly against the door. When he was sure my feet were steady again, he let go.

His fingers haltingly unfastened more rivets, taunting me with his lips as he did. I shook and moaned, my hands trembling and desperately clutching his hair. His face became an irresistible torture for me— I watched pearls of sweat running down his brow and the sucking and blowing of his cheeks. He explored every sensitive part of me, building up my want until he knew I was near to collapsing again. His tongue tickled the super-sensitive underside of my cock. He nipped and licked the head.

His warm, agile fingers pressed in degrees of need, releasing the last button, freeing me. As I touched him I saw inside him, feeling his thoughts, his heat. It was all too much. God, I loved him.

He hesitated. "Look at me," he said.

I licked my lip— his breath so hot and close against me.

"Sing 'I Feel Pretty' to me," he joked.

I choked back a laugh as his teeth gently raked against my cock, lips devouring me. I felt the pop of his jaws as his mouth opened and slid me in deeper yet. I pressed my back to the door, praying I could remain upright as my legs trembled. I loved how the contours of his mouth and tongue moved against the length of me. My head spun with every swirling tongue motion, and heart jumped as my cock dipped over every ridge in his mouth.  I loved how Sherlock's brows twitched and lips tightened. My mind wrapped around how much I desired and loved him. I closed my eyes. God, he was achingly beautiful. It was so hard letting him do all the work and fucking me hard with his mouth. Wet and warm, in and out, faster and faster.

His cock bumped against my shin. I pressed into him.

But the best was seeing into him, feeling how much he loved doing this _for_ me and _to_ me, and how he lost himself in the process.

"Open your eyes-- look at me," he said. I opened them and looked down. Seeing him there on his knees with my cock hard and eager in his mouth was all it took.

I felt a warmth building and felt Sherlock feel it, too. He knew I was near; his fingers cupped my balls, and they tightened in his hand. I whimpered. Then I came— legs giving up, collapsing. I cried out. Sherlock braced me up with his hands as he swallowed. When finished, he smiled up at me sheepishly, his lips moist.

Fuck, he was hot.

I summoned what little strength I had left in my rubbery bones to pull him up to his feet and kiss him.

"My turn. What's your desire?" I asked, his dick straining against me. "My fingers around your cock? My lips? A little of each?"

"When you put it like that—how about a bit of each?"

"Mmm, yes," I said, grabbing his shirt. I pulled him toward the bed. "This mattress hasn't been properly tested. It's nice and firm. Like you. Time we christened it, don't you think?"

I fell down on my back into the bed, pulling the waist of his jeans.

"Let's get these off," I said.

Maybe after some practice I could be the tease Sherlock was, but right then I wasn't in the mood. I hastily unzipped his jeans, yanking them down and off along with his underwear. I stood up, threw them to the floor and whipped my own clothes off. Flopping back down beside him on the bed, I impatiently unbuttoned his purple shirt, kissing his chest and spending a few choice moments biting his nipples just enough to make him moan and squirm. I wanted to get right down to what was important. That beautiful cock. 

I touched him.

I licked my lips, the ultimate foreplay for Sherlock. I knew what that did to him. I let them dance from nipple to nipple. I nipped and sucked and he moaned. Then I looked into his sea green eyes and purposefully slid my body down—eyes never leaving his— planting strategic kisses over his heart, just above his belly button, just below. I kissed a tiny trail down the soft fuzz leading to the base of his cock. I kept my hands stroking him, thumb toying with his moistened head, all the while watching his perfect face.

"I'm going to make you come hard in my mouth," I said, then took one swift lick up his shaft and filled my throat with him. He spasmed, his breath hissing in sharp bursts and fits, his thighs tightening around my head.

“John. Please!”

The high flush of his cheeks and chest, the soft sweaty curls clinging to his forehead, and the trails of sweat flowing through his fine chest hairs. He saw the want deep inside my eyes, my heart.

He thrust up into my mouth.

"John," he moaned, hands raking the back of my neck. "Oh, God, your perfect mouth. I'm coming."

I swallowed him as far back into my throat as I could, gorging myself on him. His eyes, clear and shining, reached into mine. His full lips gently parted and he whimpered my name. After I finished drinking down the last of him, I nestled my face into the dip of his pelvis. I heard him murmur, "I love you."

I wiped a tear out of my eye. Damn, now I was crying when _he_ came.

We talked before falling asleep wrapped up together. It was easy. We’d get Moriarty. It didn’t matter how many years Moriarty had lived. Sherlock was smarter than him.

\----------------------------------

I woke from one of those dreams where you have to piss, but can't— instead you're tormented by swimming down mountain streams or raging rapids and wake up too lazy to get up. So you try to fall back to sleep, but you’re in the same dream again until finally you wake up and can’t postpone it any longer. What was it with me and my bladder recently?

I gently moved the sheets aside and glanced over at Sherlock. Moonlight bathed the room, softly framing Sherlock's face. His eyelids danced and lashes fluttered. My finger brushed a curl near the corner of his eye. Leaning over, I kissed his forehead.

"Love you," I whispered. The corner of his mouth turned up. I slipped my feet to the floor. So hard to leave the warm bed and Sherlock. I slipped on Sherlock's red bathrobe and started down the stairs.

Toby followed, probably hoping for a midnight romp or maybe a doggy snack.

The Moon illuminated the staircase. We descended the surreal space. I held the railing to keep from stumbling as Toby clipped my heels. As I came to the last step, almost toppling over, I heard raised voices and stopped, trying to make out who was arguing. I quietly made my way toward the noise, padding through the hallway behind the stairs, following the voices towards the door to the old smoking room.

Toby barked. I hushed him as I heard Sean say distinctly: "This is none of your business."

Then I heard Glenda: "We told you years ago that this came with a price."

I stepped closer to the closed door and pressed my ear to it. I’d been around Sherlock for too long not to take advantage of a situation when it arises. Toby made himself at home and went to search out his bowl toward the kitchen.

"I never knew I had a choice," Sean hissed back. "If I'd known, I never would have done it."

"You don't mean that," said Glenda.

"Like Hell, I don't."

"You can't be with him, or any other mortal," I heard Uncle Gregory say. "It's not fair to them. You will remain the same. They change. This never works. Your Aunt Glenda told you; she married one of them once. Mortals will never understand us."

"This is shit. Like I can pick who I fall in love with."

"You can pick who you spend time with," Glenda said, "and who you are intimate with. And it can't be with Smith or any other mortal. That is the rule."

"Whose rules? Your rules? And what happens if I break them?"

"Nothing will happen— to _you_ ," she answered.

"Is that a threat? So I'm supposed to pretend I don't care or else Smith gets hurt? What about John and Sherlock? When are you going to explain these _rules_ to them?" Sean asked.

My heart stopped. Toby brushed against the door. No one spoke in the other room. I wondered if they knew I was listening, then my uncle continued. "He was already involved with Sherlock. We couldn't stop it. There is more going on than you understand."

"I understand a lot more than you both think. You didn't want to stop it. We tricked John to get him here. We tricked him to stay. Sherlock is the only reason John is here in this house.  None of us have ever had a choice. What's the reason you _had_ to have John and I go into the garden? I'd love for you to explain that one. And Sherlock. You've _used_ him. You wanted John to be involved with him because it serves your purpose. I read my Mom's letters to you, Aunt Glenda...I know all these wheels within wheels at work."

"Her letters? You've been sneaking around in my room?"

"I don’t believe you! You and Greg are always looking through my stuff. Yeah, I read it all. You won't tell me. Besides, they're letters from _my_ mother. They're _MY_ letters, not _yours_. I know Mom and Dad never wanted John or I to become what we are. They kept us away from here for a reason. They wanted both of us to have a normal life."

"They had no right to make that choice," Glenda snapped.

"Choice?" Sean choked. I heard him laughing. Then silence. Finally he spoke up again, voice quivering. "God, I _believed_ all these years that you cared about me. Instead it's some fucking grand design that you give a shit about. Not me. Not John and not Mom and Dad. Now I know just how dearly my parents paid for keeping us from _you_."

I heard a sharp slap.

"I loved your parents," she said, sobbing. "We had nothing to do with their deaths. I love you and your brother. Making you one of us was done to protect you. We made that choice. I'm not sorry."

"You make this sound like some grand sacrifice on _your_ part. If this choice was so fucking righteous, tell me, explain why dragging us down to the roses was necessary. I need to know. John needs to know. You had no right to make choices for us," he replied. "Never ask me to take John out to that garden again. I won't do it."

I heard someone walking toward me. I jumped back. Nowhere to hide. The door opened, and Sean saw me standing there. His eyes met mine in silent understanding as he brushed past me. He’d known I was listening the whole while. I looked past him to Aunt Glenda and Uncle Greg.

“I’m not talking to either of you,” I said. Toby ran between them. I turned, walked to the bathroom and slammed the door. Something like that could take the piss out of anybody.

I didn’t turn on the light.

I wanted to protect Sherlock _and_ love him. I never dreamed those two desires might diverge.


	15. Insect Bites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the garden together brings Sherlock and John into far more intimate arrangement than they anticipated and reveals John's new supernatural power.

The mosquito bit my hand. 

Sherlock lay next to me, snoring gently. I lay on my side, cheek resting on the stiff, white pillow case. I considered the mosquito for some time, left hand resting on the pillow next to my face. It took its time. Finally, swollen and gorged, it drunkenly buzzed away, leaving that familiar itch behind.     


I sighed. All that little mosquito wanted was a meal. Only a little of me. Silly, really, to think that a few days ago I would have swatted it dead without a second thought. This morning, I scratched the bite with my stubby nails and watched it fly to the window and bang its bloated body into the glass, thinking maybe I should open the window.

I rolled over and pulled the sheet over my head and Sherlock's. I was being ridiculous. 

Sherlock's arm folded around me, and he kissed my ear. 

"Didn't sleep well, did you?" he yawned.

"No, not at all," I mumbled.

He hadn’t either. When I crept back to bed, he was silent but not asleep. All through the rest of the night he moved through his Mind Palace searching solutions while I fell down a bottomless pit, clutching the sides for a handhold. How much should I tell him? If I plummeted deeper and deeper into this abyss, what was a few more feet? 

His chin dug into my shoulder and sighed. 

“I already know. I heard it all,” he said, slipping his big hands down my thighs. 

I’d swear that _ he’s _ the one with the supernatural powers, not me. 

So I didn’t have tell him about what I overheard on my trip downstairs to the bathroom last night, or about the discussion I had with my aunt and uncle afterward. I'd been thinking all night that it came down to doing what Glenda and Greg thought was best, or what my heart thought was best. In the end, Sherlock made the choice for us by doing what he thought best. 

“When you failed to return to bed, l got up and looked for you. Simple to find you, since Toby led me directly to the door where you were eavesdropping.”

“You decided, why not listen too?”

His grin tickled my neck. “Of course. I knew you’d go back in the room to talk to them when you were done in the bathroom, so I waited.”

As his hand slipped lower, I sighed. “Nothing will change my mind about how I feel about you. Not time, not age.”

“I understand and willingly face the fact that you will outlive me by many lifetimes, but that doesn’t mean we should throw away what time we have.”

“My point exactly. Being near me will likely kill you. You don’t deserve a death sentence for falling in love with me.”

“John! Are you dense? No one is going to  _ die _ . Not for a long while. You resent that many choices were made for you. Do not do the same to me.”

God, he knew me, because in the end, if it came to me leaving with Moriarty, that's the way it would have to be. That was  _ my _ choice to make. I’m sorry that Sherlock wouldn’t see it that way.

“I know what you’re thinking. Stop. We will solve this together. Do not make rash choices for my protection. Although your discussion with your aunt and uncle wasn't as bitter as Sean’s, you did lose your temper when they revealed you had another sibling.”

He had heard it all, then. I’m sure my uncle used Alexander’s fate as a moral lesson before me to Sean. The sad story of our older brother Alexander. Given a choice between remaining human or becoming immortal, he chose mortal life. My birth parents counseled him against remaining human that if he had children, he’d pass the trait on to them. He became estranged from the family because of his choice. But it was his choice to be alone and died an old man alone with no family. 

"There's something else you need to know, “ Sherlock said. “Remember all the research I did on Emma Lestrade? Well, I know her estranged husband; you know him too...Peter." 

"Dr. Deal?"

"I should have suspected immediately. The man is a genius. No doubt how he fooled me. When he suggested that hypnosis might work for you, I should have deduced he had a hidden motive when he called me to sell me his  _ La bohème _ tickets. He abhors opera. What troubles me most is his close association with my family. He comes over for dinner— Thanksgiving, Christmas. He's gone on vacations with us to Madrid and...I should have suspected. His appearance. He hasn’t changed.”

"He's one of them.” 

“John, I…”

Sherlock’s head shook, nostrils flared, hands skittered up and down my back. I didn't blame him for being agitated. This was betrayal of the worst kind. A close family friend who probably never was a friend at all. I hoped I was wrong and that Deal's friendship was real. I knew that his parents loved him.  _ Peter this, Peter that.  _ Gawd, sometimes I wondered about the three of them. 

"Peter and Glenda... they are still married then?" I asked.

"The records I found on their marriage were from 1912. I found no evidence of divorce, only his parents’ death certificates. They passed away long ago."

"A marriage on paper only?"

“No. He said he loved her. I confronted him and asked him why they separated. He said it was his fault. That he’d tricked her, and she couldn’t forgive him.”

“Tricked her?”

“He lied about his age and told her he had already turned but was growing weaker. He convinced her that he needed to go to the garden. He said she never would have found out except for Moriarty. He blackmailed Peter. When Peter wouldn’t supply him with cuttings from Mica, he confessed to Glenda. He said, that after that, they tried to reconcile,” Sherlock said, voice shaking. His body tensed against me.  “Although he said he loves her, they could never work out their differences, since she could never let his lie go." 

I knew why he was upset. Sherlock knew what I was leading up to without me saying— that two people, one mortal and one immortal, could never last. His face darkened, and he was stiff and still. 

"This is all about that crapola that we both overheard last night: the code that forbids close relationships with mortals. It’s all about protecting their secret. Do you honestly think that I'll regret loving you? That you'll regret loving me? There’s nothing you could say or do that would change how I feel."

“I am not so sure.”

I closed my eyes and held my breath. His hands found mine, grasping them tightly.. 

"Believe me...I'll love you no matter what time does to  _ either _ of us,” I said. “I love you. That's not what worries me. I'm terrified about the  _ now _ . What's going to happen to  _ us _ —to  _ you _ .”

“I’m more worried about you,” Sherlock interrupted. “They see you as a threat or a prize. I'm more concerned about keeping you alive than what  _ might _ happen ten or twenty years from now."

"You're thinking of Moriarty and his damned test."

Sherlock frowned and started to speak, but bit off his words. 

“Last night was too close. You had a gun trained on your head. A head shot could kill you.”

“Moriarty wouldn’t risk that. He needs me to make that fucking serum to keep him alive.”

“He’s unpredictable. John, don’t you see? He wants much more than that from you. He wants whatever powers you acquire. To get them, he will take you apart.” His voice broke as he said the last words, and my heart sank. I’d only seen Sherlock cry a few times in my life and he was sobbing now. I hugged him tight to me and he sobbed into my shoulder. 

“But we don’t know that I can die even then,” I said. ”But I do know a shot to the heart could kill you. Sherlock, listen to me: I have to go back down into the garden. I know you don't like it, but I have to do it. I have to be able to save you, save people I care for because sooner or later, Moriarty or someone else is going to try to kill you or someone I love. I can’t let that happen. But most of all, I have to do it to find out what it is I really am. Whatever happens, I won't lose you.”

We weren't safe. I knew it; Sherlock knew it. We didn't have much time left. After last night, I was weighing the option of seeking the Community's help. But Sherlock was a mosquito to them, and I wasn't much above a lab rat. I didn't trust them with either of our lives. I was beginning to wonder if there was a plan that was even possible. 

"Sherlock, I have to do this.”

"I understand addiction. Telling yourself just one last time. And it’s never enough. As long as you go back, you’ll want to say there."

"I have a reason to come back. One six foot, ungodly brilliant man who thinks I’m as just as brilliant as he is. "

Sherlock's arm pulled me closer. My shoulder damp. I kissed the corner of his bowed lips.

"John, I don't want to die. I'd be a fool not to be afraid. But I'm more afraid to live without you. If you turned yourself over to them, what they'd do to you could be worse than death. It could change you into someone I don’t know."   


I knew he was right, but I didn't want to think about that or Moriarty. I'd rather be dead than have him touch me. 

"Maybe it would be better if you couldn’t save me," said Sherlock. "He wouldn’t have any leverage.”

"How can you say that if you died it'd be better for me? You are the only truth in my life."

Now I was spouting off like a young hunk in a Harlequin novel.

"But..." Might as well go all the way with it. "They can't keep me forever. I'll come back to you... and I've got to believe there's something more.” I kissed him hard and open mouthed, then broke away and looked in his eyes. “They're worried. There's something important being kept from us."

"I'm going into the garden with you," he said determinedly. "I'm not leaving you alone out there."

The garden. With Sherlock. God, the images of him that we going through my brain. Sweaty. Chest heaving. Hand grasping my cock.    


A timid knock came from the door. Then again. 

"I bring coffee... " came Sean's quiet voice, "...with bagels."

Sherlock smirked. "Guess, we'd better get dressed," he said.

"Just a minute," I answered, throwing our sheets aside.

\----------------------------------------- 

When I opened the door and looked into his eyes, I saw concern in Sean's face. Thoughtful of him to bring breakfast. We all sat down, Sherlock and I on the bow-window seat and Sean on the overstuffed chair by the maple dresser. We drank our coffee in silence, assessing each other. I was impressed he remembered just enough cream for me, and Sherlock's had loads of cream and even more sugar. Sean bit his lip, then set his jaw.  He reminded me of Mary just before she was ready to give up one of her sisterly secrets— the ones women tell each other, like “Irene’s right breast is larger than her left.”

Guys don't do that. Much. I didn't expect that from Sean. Maybe Sherlock, but only because he doesn’t understand what’s not good. On the other hand he’d never do it for the validation which comes after spilling your guts. Like Mary giving away the secret,  _ then _ saying she only told me because I was safe and cuddly and fucking gay. That  _ used _ to upset me.

Clink. Sean's spoon battered the inside of his mug as he tapped the handle. He was telegraphing some sort of inner battle. Not sure about what. I was surprised my aunt and uncle let him come up here to talk to us. Probably couldn't stop him, or they didn't think he knew enough to cause harm.

Didn't matter to me. Sherlock was itching to ask more questions. He knew about Sean's parents' death before I did. He always knew what was up before me. I was still a little upset with that, but it was something I’d learned to accept. He did tell me. Eventually. Neither of us were going to make the mistake of secrets again. From now on, two heads together. And from the look on Sean's face, maybe we'd have a third.

"Where to start..." Sean said at last.

"With Moriarty," Sherlock suggested.

"Yes, good place," Sean said. "Since for the time being, we don't have to worry about him. He's gone, but he'll be back."

"Gone?" I said.

"Mycroft’s men lost him last night," he explained. "One moment Moriarty was in their sights; the next he'd vanished like Houdini. Abandoned his car. His house. Lestrade said members of the Community tracked him to Detroit Metro. Moriarty boarded a private jet to somewhere in South America." 

I didn't know what called Moriarty away, but I was sure it would lead to misery for us both. 

“My brother is an idiot— and so am I: just how long have you known Mycroft?”

"Best to understand your relations. Friends. And your enemies," he acknowledged, taking a big bite of blueberry bagel and chewing. "I’ve known him awhile. He used to stop by and have tea with Aunt Glenda. But I thought you wanted to talk about Moriarty.”

“Yes, we do,” I said. Nothing about Mycroft surprised me. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

“Moriarty's a psychopath. He is seriously deranged. You know his history with Uncle Greg. He has this obsession with immortals and our family in particular. When he first trashed your house, John, we searched Moriarty's apartment and nosed around. We out found Moriarty has a hobby— cameras and video. He's taken plenty of you, Sherlock and the band: eating, shopping, working and hanging at home. In Sherlock’s apartment. No nice way to say this— he's got some, um, raunchy video of you two."

"Fuck!" Moriarty probably beat off watching them. Not much different from his obsession with my uncle years ago. Back then he sent notes and dead sparrows. Now he rapped on windows and took lewd video. Sherlock’s face was a mask, which meant he was seriously disturbed. 

"Sorry we kept that from you. Evidently, this has been going on for a long time. We found thousands of hours of video. Some of me. Hell, John, he had pictures from inside your parents' house. He had pictures…" Sean stopped; his jaw tightened. My hands began to shake. "He knew we’d break into his place. He left them all neat and tidy all lined up on a table for us to see. What bothered me most was Uncle Greg wasn't surprised. He  _ knew _ Moriarty had been watching us all along. Moriarty murdered our parents. The fucker had pay stubs in the apartment from the business that jimmied up the gas line.  He left the stubs out from Rex's Heating and Cooling on the coffee table with all the rest."

Sean wasn't chewing on his bagel any more. He set his coffee aside, too. "Dear uncle knows exactly what's going on and why," Sean said. 

"He knows the connections,” Sherlock spoke up. 

“And he won't share. What upsets me most is I believe he and Aunt Glenda could have prevented it all. This isn't about dirty little secrets or because they're afraid of the Community. It's some grandiose design or some such high-minded garbage. All for some damned ideals. I just don't know what secret could be so important that they'd let people they love die."

I sat with the half-eaten cinnamon bagel in my lap. I picked at the cream cheese. My head ached. I needed fresh air. I heard the mosquito buzzing near my ear. I glanced up. It was trapped between the curtain and the window. I moved my hand to brush the curtain aside. It swayed before my finger touched it. Old windows. Wind blows right through them.

"Moriarty is crazy, but not The Community,” Sean said. “It has an agenda. It’s possible they’re more of a threat to you than the nut job. The elders are the ones to really look out for." 

"I thought you were supposed to respect them," I joked. "This feels like an old sci-fi thriller. Maybe a Peter Cushing movie." 

Machinations from a third party.  _ Great _ . Old, powerful beings. Most likely omnipotent. 

"So you're saying there is really no winning this," I said, impulsively reaching for the lace curtain again. This time it clearly moved before my finger brushed it. 

"You'd prefer I said yes, there is a way out." Sean cracked a sad smile. 

"They want me."

"Yes, they're after what you have," Sean said plainly. 

“What do I have?”

“I don’t know. And they won’t tell me.”

Sherlock caught my gaze and held it. “John, there is  _ always _ a way to win. And we’ll find it.”

The buzzing and battering against the window continued. Both hands at my sides, I looked at the curtain. There. Just a whisper of movement— but I saw it move. And again. 

Sherlock was silent. Sean, too. I closed my eyes and pictured the curtains being drawn aside by my hand— the mosquito free.

I heard Sean's hushed voice ask Sherlock: "Did you see that?"

It buzzed by my head. I opened my eyes. The curtain still swayed and billowed. 

"I believe we just learned what other power they want from you," Sherlock said, “and it’s one we could use to our advantage. Let no one else know about this.”

We all agreed.

\--------------------------------

It was necessary. I had to go into the garden. The more exposure I had to Mica, the more control I could have over what happened to us. I knew they were worried, and I knew why. What else could I move with my mind, given time? If any of those with designs on this power waited too long, they wouldn't be able to get to me. I had to go to the garden— become stronger. We needed more time. 

This was it. Sean understood, but he wouldn't go into the garden with me. 

"You don't have to go with me either," I said to Sherlock. "You might be a distraction."

"Actually, who's to say that this isn't part of the process," Sean observed. "I've been through this myself, and don't get embarrassed, but I don't think getting, um,  _ stimulated _ is just a by-product of the process. I think it's the  _ point _ ."

"What the fuck does that mean?" I asked.

"Sex is the most basic and most complex part of life. It  _ is  _ life." 

"Make love not war. Blah, blah, blah. Let's go before it gets too hot out," Sherlock said. "All I need is a sunburn."

Sean chuckled as I stood up and got the lube from the dresser and stuffed it in my pocket as nonchalantly as possible. Didn't work. Sherlock's face flushed and mine did too. Although my blush wasn't from embarrassment— more like lust. 

Sean followed us as far as the back door, then watched us walk out. I took my time. Sherlock fidgeted beside me. I could see Glenda hanging out the laundry on the other side of the house, pretending not to see us and where we were going.

Side by side we walked down the worn path. A hazy morning with a subtle breeze cooling our skin. Our feet squished on the ground as we walked. Sounds from the farm fields carried up and over the hills in the still of the morning: tractor, a chickadee. Sherlock reached his hand out to mine. I thought of everything I had to lose. Days like this with the man I loved beside me. As we stepped to the entrance of the garden, I realized my cheeks were wet with tears. Part afraid and part hopeful. 

He slapped his arm. 

"Deer fly," he grumbled. "They always leave a big red welt on me after they bite." Sherlock dug at his arm. I could see his skin blister where the fly bit already.

The garden's fragrance seeped into me. Or rather, I welcomed it. Invited it. 

_ Come in, come in _ .

The sun must have come up over the wall just then, because  dew drops sparkled like diamond chips across the grass, on the leaves' edges, in the center of crimson petals. Instinctively, I spread my fingers for a rose. I snapped off a blossom, breaking its neck. I heard a cry.

But no...that was from me.

With my right hand, I brought the bloom to my face. Gently I twirled the flower between my thumb and forefinger, velvet on my cheek, my nose. My tears mingled with the prisms of dew. I felt Sherlock's eyes warm me. Slowly, hesitantly, I reached toward the snapped stem of the winding rose I'd plucked. I grasped its stem tightly in my palm. The thorny vine wound itself around my wrist. Once, twice, three times, then tightened, the barbs digging into my tanned flesh. My blood ran down my arm and dropped dark on the ground.    


The familiar swoon began, but this time there was a distinct change. A clarity of purpose swelled through me as Sherlock's hand supported my elbow. I turned, and with a violent yank, broke the vine, driving the thorns deep into my skin. 

My mouth found his. We fell to the ground, or maybe he pulled me. All was cloudy except  Sherlock before me. All I could feel was his heat against mine. I wanted his tongue, his fingers, his cock, inside me and I told him with every atom in my body.

He moved on top of me. His cock grinding into mine. My arms wrapped around him. I felt him flinch in pain. The vine around my wrist raked his back. 

"Sorry," I moaned.

He answered by reaching for my bloody wrist. He kissed it, attentively unwinding the rose and laying aside the vine. His fingers began to pluck out my thorns. 

"Leave them," I said. 

On his fingers, I spotted beads of blood. I brought his injured fingers to my mouth and closed my eyes, sucking on his fingertips. He moaned and rocked against me. He unzipped my jeans, pushing them down along with my underwear. He unfastened his, grasping his own cock, slicking it up with the lube from my pocket.

“Yeah, that’s it. Fuck me,” I cried. 

His long, talented fingers grasped me, milking my cock, grasping my balls, then teasing coyly around my ass. He drove his bloodied finger inside me, then two. The garden, the roses blurred. His face, I memorized every playful freckle, every tiny white scar. I shook and begged for him to bury his fingers deeper. No sparks or dancing lights this time. No dizzy spell. Just Sherlock. All Sherlock— his knees to my thighs, his hand to my cock, his fingers inside me, his green eyes in mine. Together. 

As his wrist turned, pulling up and down on my cock, his fingers found the spot inside me. Fuck, I was helpless. All for him. I knew I was coming already. Too soon. But what did it matter? I had him, and God he felt good. I spilled over his hand. His eyebrows arched. He was more surprised than me. I chuckled— like I beat him at his own game. He hadn't anticipated my orgasm either. 

His fingers left me.

He eased his cock inside, little by little, slowly filling me. He wouldn't let me win that easily. Heat spread from my groin to my face. My cock remained hard— harder from the pressure of Sherlock inside me. He held my knees his his large palms and pushed them back against my chest, lunging deeper and filling me. He smiled as he kissed my knees.

I reached for my own cock. Sherlock sighed in appreciation as I began to pump my dick in time with his thrusts. He let go of my legs, throwing all of his weight into me, his mouth finding my neck, sucking on it like a teenager giving their first hickey. His hands on my chest and tugging my hair.

What was he doing to me? Along with the intoxication from the roses and my wrist throbbing, Sherlock was pushing me to the edge of another climax.

Then his mouth found my tongue. He sucked and chewed on it. All the while, thrusting into me, aiming perfectly into just the right spot. I whimpered beneath him. He loved it. I didn't believe I  _ could  _ come again. Not possible, I thought. But I felt myself on that edge. This time I didn't fall right over the top, he kept me there on the precipice, aching. 

Finally releasing my tongue, he chanted “I love you” softly into my earin that rich baritone that vibrated my very core. As he climaxed, his shudders brought me close, so close. But no release. Then I felt his hand on mine, helping me, his thumb playing with the tip of my cock. 

"I don't think I can come again," I choked. 

I guess that was some kind of challenge for him. He lowered his head down until his perfect, warm mouth found my cock, burying me in the back of his throat. I whimpered and came. 

"I love you," I gasped, combing his wet curls back with my fingers. 

"Aren’t you glad I came?" he smirked.

\------------------------------

We both fell asleep. Not sure how long. Time seemed meaningless in that place. We woke, and the sun had dried up the dew, and Sherlock's ass was bright pink. 

I normally would have been burned, too. But nothing— not even my usual tanline. Super healing comes in handy. No burns. 

I gently shook Sherlock awake.

"You better get out of the sun."

Sherlock groaned and stretched against me. Felt nice.

I helped him up. I was dizzy, but able to stand and support Sherlock, who seemed to be the one who had a problem. I studied at his face more closely. His pupils were dilated and face beaded with sweat. What I'd mistaken for burned cheeks was a flush. I felt his head. He was burning up with fever. 

Shit. 

"Sherlock, you need to get back to the house. Come on," I coaxed, patting his face to get a reaction. I think he understood; he put his arm around my waist, and we managed out of the garden and started toward the house when Sean ran up and helped. 

"I've been looking for you to come back for a while," he said. I wondered if he'd watched out the window, but I didn't ask. I bet that was quite a show. 

"There’s something wrong with Sherlock.”

“Sunstroke?”

“No. Look at his eyes. It’s not sunstroke. It must have to do with the roses," I said. 

Sean nodded. Of course it was the roses. I'd scraped the thorns across his back. Then there were the thorns in his fingers. He’d done it intentionally. He must have known. I thought back to his story about his parents. Mycroft’s interest. His visits here.

"Will he be okay?" I asked. 

"Yeah, probably. Depends on his sensitivity. He'll be out of it for a while." 

We helped him up the stairway to our room. I heard Lestrade and Glenda talking in the hallway as Sean and I helped Sherlock into bed.

"This is all my fault. Why the fuck hadn’t I realized this would happen?" I mumbled as I took off his shoes. "Sherlock, you bastard. Can you hear me? Why the fuck did you do this?" 

He groaned. I think that was an answer. I loosened his shirt then held his hand as I sat on the edge of the bed. 

"Don't be so hard on yourself. He might even have suspected this would happen."

"Suspected? No. Sherlock never suspects anything. He knows. That’s why Peter Deal had such an interest in him. Damn it.

Sherlock's mouth moved. His eyes closed. I wondered if he could hear us. 

"He's not one of us,” Sean said. “He can't be, but I bet somewhere down the line in his family there was an immortal. Just like Deal and Moriarty."

Lestrade and Aunt Glenda stood in the doorway listening.

"Deal's father was a well-known botanist. Guess what he studied?" Sean said, eyes on Glenda.

"Rosa," Glenda broke in, "and Rosaceae." 

She leaned against the frame, and she should seem small and insignificant near the massive door. Yet even in that simple aqua housedress, she looked otherworldly, a nymph. 

"He was looking for the fountain of youth," added Sean. "His interest was in Mica. I don’t understand why you can’t forgive him, Aunt Glenda. He still loves you.”

“Pleasing his father was more important," she said.

“You’d fault him for that?” Sean asked.

"He never told me who his father was until he had no choice. He kept it from me. He kept his father's plans secret. Then he robbed us, took plants from the garden and gave them to his father. And it wasn't just a fountain of youth his father was interested in. Some kind of weapon. All for  _ money _ ."

"Biological warfare has been around for centuries, since man understood disease and poisons," Lestrade added. 

I laid my hand across Sherlock's sweaty brow. He was cooler; his fever broken. Still, he looked sick and vulnerable. Listening to Glenda condemn Peter Deal seemed an irony to me. She hated him for stealing the roses. They were trying to steal Sherlock's life.

"How is that any different than how you've treated me? You lied to me to get me here. You've put Sherlock in danger. Now he's sick. I'm sure you had some idea that was going to happen."

I looked over at Lestrade. I wanted to trust him. Part of me said to trust him. The other part said to run. His eyes had a quiet patience that I liked. From the very beginning, he was a contradiction to me. I don't know why I found it necessary to make excuses for his deceptions. Despite everything, part of me wanted a family again.    


"My whole family line disavowed me after I married Peter. Greg came back after that terrible incident with Moriarty," she said. "I was Emma Lange— outspoken and stupid. I was in love."

"So it cost you your parents' approval," I said bitterly. "It cost our parents their lives." 

Sean nodded in agreement. 

I rubbed the top of Sherlock's hand with my thumb, then turned it over. The tips of his fingers were swollen and infected. I was reminded of my first poke from the thorn. Now, the briars I'd driven into my wrist were visible under my pale skin. No sign of wounds.

"You said some people get seriously ill. The same branch that was in me stuck him. What will that do to him?"

"The same vine?" she asked, walking up to Sherlock. She lightly touched his forehead. "He should be fine." 

I snorted. “Should be fine? What kind of a fucking answer is that?” I shouted. 

Her lips trembled. Fuck, she acted like she cared. She looked at Lestrade like a child looking for permission from a parent. She didn’t speak again until he nodded his approval. "He's bound to you now,” she sighed. “It's sad when they're a mortal. It’s never the same for any two people, but it's never fair for a mortal. Sherlock must have known."

Making decisions for me again. Choosing for me.

"This is bullshit. Enough of this walking around blind. I need to know what is happening. Did you know about this?” I yelled, turning on Sean. “Tell me."

“No!” he said. “I’m sorry, John. I never would have let you go out there with him if I’d known.”

“But Sherlock deduced it,” Lestrade said. “He had a very good idea of what would happen. And Mycroft knew.”

"It was necessary. Just like you needed to remember in your own time what happened in the hospital," she explained. "You need to understand, to experience this. We can not tell you what you are. You must discover it."

"Who are you? Fucking Yoda?!"

"Shut up and listen, young Skywalker," Sherlock said hoarsely. 

My head spun around, and he gave me a half-assed grin. He was hurting, but he was here with me.

"I  _ must _ be delirious,” said Sherlock, words slurring, "What she said just made sense to me, and I’m reciting that insipid movie you made me watch with you." 

"Of course it does," I said. "You stupid bastard. Goes with that fancy university learning you have and all that new-age mumbo-jumbo your parents stuffed in your head. They've been reading crystals since you could string three words together. Having Mycroft for an older brother did something to your brain too."    


I had the urge to hug him, so I followed my impulse.

"I think we should let Sherlock get some rest," Lestrade said. Glenda agreed. 

They left, Sean last. I went to stand, and Sherlock pulled my hand.

"Don't leave."

"I won't. Ever. Not unless you tell me to. But you can’t do this. Make decisions for us both without talking first." 

I stretched myself next to him and kissed his forehead. No fever, that I could tell. Much cooler.

I wouldn't ever leave him, unless I didn't have a choice.


	16. Lovely, Dark and Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romance, sex, betrayal, and danger. All inside this chapter. On top of that, it contains one of the longest sex scenes I've ever written, but remember, as Sean says, sex isn't the a by-product of the process: It's the point. No PWP in this work! Yes, there is a Special Purpose! And it's magical.

I raised my head as I heard a branch snap.

Sherlock and I were sprawled on top of an old rotting log by the pond we nearly always ended up at on our usual after-dinner walks. It's marshy with fuzzy cattails and lavender liatris invading the edges. Perfect and serene. We were far enough into the forest that usually the only sounds were bullfrogs and crickets.

 

I sat up and turned towards the noise and a doe bounced past us, white tail bobbing away into the brush.

Just a deer.

"I think we better get back," Sherlock whispered.

It was a week since Sherlock and I had gone into the garden together. Since then, I'd gone alone every morning. In the afternoons, I'd spend my time with Sherlock or at the piano in the family room downstairs, trying to compose. We'd take long walks in the woods, hold hands and listen to twigs snap beneath our feet and sit by the pond. We’d relax in the shade on a cold granite boulder and watch the shadows deepen, waiting for the sun to set over the hill and the first fireflies to dance.

Although on the outside Sherlock seemed better, he was reflective and subdued. Making love was quiet and slow. He insisted I go to work at the flower shop last week, but I wouldn't. I didn't want to leave him.

Mycroft had been by twice to check on us and fill us in on Moriarty. 

I struggled to go to a few band practices, going through the motions. I played with the band on Friday and last night. Sherlock watched, sipping his Coke, chatting with Irene, Mary and Anderson, but he didn't grab me under the table once, and I even wore my black leather.

It was Sunday and still no sign of Moriarty. The man haunted me even as I slept. Mycroft's contacts at the Community told him he was still tucked away in Buenos Aires, but I still expected him to be around every corner, behind every tree. His memory was like a vulture picking at my brain. 

I know the thought of him haunted Sherlock, too. I tried getting him to talk to me. I tried to pry open the door to his Mind Palace, but he kept himself locked inside. When he wasn’t he was more confused than I was about why he felt so melancholy. Sherlock was locked up tight, and it frightened me.

Glenda said it happens this way when one becomes bound to the other, and one is mortal. The feeling smothers them.

I'd been downstairs, tinkering on the piano for about an hour. I'd played the same few bars over and over, inspiration and concentration both failing me. I stood up and slid the piano bench in, deciding to go upstairs to talk to Sherlock. 

As I neared our room, I heard Sean and Sherlock. Instead of walking in, I stopped just outside the door. 

"... as Deal is to me and always will be," Sherlock said quietly.

"He's a friend of your family. I understand that."

"No, you don't. He was more than a friend to me at one time. He was my lover. My first."

I felt like I’d been hit with a rock.

"Oh."

"I was young. It was one-sided. It's just, I wonder with John if this is a pattern."

I felt physically ill. Why hadn't he told me about Deal? Or how he was feeling about me?

"This is all a mess. And John blames himself for everything that's happened. He's the most honest and empathic man I know. He watches me like I'll disappear. When he goes down to the garden, I’ve asked to go with him, but he refuses. He’s not my John. He's barely smiled or cracked a joke all week. Just sits at the piano and plays. He doesn’t want to practice with the band! He quit going to the flower shop, and Mrs. Hudson is upset since he hasn’t bothered to call her. That's not like him. At least you talked him into playing. It’s been the only time I've seen him relaxed. He doesn't even relax when we make love."

"Yeah, even on stage last night he wasn't the same,” Sean said. “Even Smith noticed.”

“He going through a lot of chemical changes. We both are, and it's fucking with our minds.”

“He does have a real reason to be afraid for you, Sherlock.”

I heard Sherlock stand and step toward the door.

“John?”

He knew I was there. Of course he did. He’s Sherlock Holmes.

_ Deal _ . Why hadn’t he confided in me? I didn’t go inside. Instead, I turned around and went downstairs. It was shocking to hear him acknowledge bits about his intimate past, but even more shocking for Sherlock to expose his feelings. He was changing as much as me. I had to think, so I went down to the roses. I know it’s radically altering me, but I needed it. It was mid-afternoon before I woke up in the garden.

\------------------------------

Glenda was preparing Sunday dinner in the kitchen when I came back. She'd just finished chopping carrots and started cleaning broccoli. 

"Need a hand?" I asked.

"Not here, but you could be a dear and bring in the laundry off the line for me? The basket's in the breezeway."

"Sure, I'd be glad to," I said. She was smart not to let me around the kitchen. And since I could fold a mean t-shirt, I nodded and headed out to get the basket. Besides, it was the least I could do since she'd washed Sherlock's and my laundry. I picked up the old wicker laundry basket and let the screen door bang behind me. 

She had extra clothesline rolled up in the basket. Must be she had to put up more to accommodate us. I laid it over the side of the basket and pulled off the sheets first, then some my shirts and jeans. Nothing for anyone else on the line. I took off Sherlock's and my laundry and folded it. 

I grinned thinking about what Glenda thought of Sherlock’s red underwear. I went back into the house, carrying our basket.

As I came in through the side screen door where the breezeway attached to the house, Sherlock and Sean sat in the mudroom at an old oak table. It was evident that they’d both been watching from the windows. Sherlock stood immediately.

"Talking about me again, I see," I asked, trying to brush past him. 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. “Listening in again?” 

My face grew hot with equal parts of embarrassment and anger, but his eyes were cast down in equal unease. He knew what he’d said was a bit not good. He raised them slowly, color changing like his grey mood. His open hands reached and rested them over the tops of mine so that we grasped the handles together. 

"I’ll take those and put them away for you. Meet me upstairs in a few minutes. If you like,” he said, nodding. I let him have the basket, reluctantly letting go of his hands. “And if you don’t like, meet me anyway," he added. I watched him leave. Sean raised his eyebrow to me, then head tipped toward the chair. I took Sherlock’s seat.

“You think that since you’ve been best buddies since childhood that he should have told you. My guess is that he didn’t because he already knew the depth of his feelings for you. That’s a much bigger secret to keep, and you let him do that.”

“I thought he told me everything. As a friend,” I said, oddly confiding to Sean just as Sherlock had done. He sat, legs open, leaning forward, right hand on his green and white MSU coffee mug. 

Sean was right. I had let him keep his secret. Sean’s old jeans and tattered blue flannel shirt as real and as comforting as he was. I went to get up, but Sean reached out. 

“I’d give Sherlock a few minutes before you go up and talk to him.” He tapped his mug and looked out toward the garden. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Such simple words. His tone, deep and hoarse, bared his heart. I realized I was glad too. I wiped my eyes. 

“Did  _ you _ ever talk with him about experiences with people you were intimate with?” he asked.

“Not, really. No. But he should have told me about Deal.”

“Yes. He should have. But he didn’t. You know him better than anyone. You  _ know  _ why he didn’t tell you.”

Sherlock’s protected me. Always protected me. Before himself. But in this case, not when it came to his heart. Safeguarding his open heart from me must have became second nature over time. I’d broken it enough. 

“Your advice is a lot sounder than I usually get. Mary and Irene aren’t exactly Dear Abby.”

“Actually, that’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Mary?”

“No, Irene.” The old oak chair creaked as Sean leaned back. He closed his eyes to compose himself. All I could think was what next? 

“What about Irene? Sherlock always held some kind of fascination with her. He never cared much for attractive women, or women at all. Well, people actually. But Irene? I thought...I thought she was different. It was her mind. Or possibly...now…”

“Don’t go second guessing yourself about Sherlock. He puzzled her. She was a mystery. But that’s not attraction. It’s just...”

I sighed and scratched the back of my neck. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’m not sure how much I should say. She’s just dangerous.”

“Irene? What?” She was a bit of a dominatrix, I heard, but dangerous? How could she possibly be dangerous?

I didn’t even want to ask. “You don’t want to tell me because Sherlock knows already.” 

Sean smiled sadly. “Your friend has an uncanny ability to see what others miss. It’s amazing really.”

“I’ve always thought so.”

“But not most people.” He scratched his nose and sat back in his chair. “You haven’t known her long.” A statement. Not a question. 

“She works at the library, so Sherlock met her there. But Mary knew her before we did. That’s how I met her— through Mary.” 

“You didn’t grow up with her in this town. So, not that long, but not really when put into proper perspective.”

“So what is her game? What does she want?”

“Good question,” Sean said.

“I have to wonder if you live long enough what anyone could possibly want. Maybe what they can’t have.”

“ _ Exactly _ .”

My skin grew clammy, I felt light headed. It reminded me of the time Sherlock and I ran after a mugger, and I fell from a roof. I remember the dizziness and mental confusion from hemorrhaging.  “Well,” I said, weakly, “she’s not going to get him.”

“Sherlock doesn’t want her. He wants you. And he waiting.”

————————--

I knew I could confront him with all I had learned, but why? What would it accomplish? I didn’t want to fight. I wanted to understand. He needed my support. My legs got steadier as I thought about Sherlock's slender body and narrow hips, Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock’s eyes, Sherlock's cock. That probably got the color back in my face again. 

I stopped just outside the door. No sound from within. 

I held my breath and turned the brass knob. The door creaked open.

He’d put our clothes in the dresser. The basket sat on the chair in the corner next to the fireplace. 

On the bed, eyes wide in stunned embarrassed silence was Sherlock... 

I couldn’t help it. I went into hysterics.

"Stop laughing!" he yelled, pulling against the cords on his hands. I sputtered and moaned. Dang, he messed this one up, but the result was amazing.

"This is fucking hot," I said. "Gosh, you're pretty in those panties!"

All he was wearing was the lacy black underwear Mary put in my bag as a joke. The pair with the little red hearts. That was it.

He’d tied himself up. That was tricky. Damn cheap plastic clothesline. I wasn’t sure how, but I’d guess he used his teeth to get the clothesline around his wrists and then looped it through to pull the square knot tight. Looked pretty convincing. Then he probably got into the bed, sprawled out, trying to look the part. Put himself into character. 

The headboard was obviously an afterthought. Probably looked up, saw it and thought it was a good idea. Then he’d swung his hands back over one of the bedposts. The frame where it was attached was about three and a half feet high. He would have had to stand on the bed, put his back against the post and loop his hands backward over the top. 

Then he sat down, which was a mistake.

He’d misjudged the height of the headboard. It was either a few inches higher than he expected, or his arms were a few inches shorter. Sherlock rarely miscalculated like this. When I came in, he was struggling to get his legs out in front of him to correct the situation. But seeing him straining, bound to the bedpost—hmm. I leapt on the bed and straddled his legs. My eyes fell on his cock bursting out of the crotch of his underwear. 

He was blushing. Chest and face all blotched. It was adorable.   


"You’re the most unpredictable person I know," Sherlock sputtered. “That’s one of the reasons I love you. I thought I should be a bit more unpredictable and adventurous. In bed, that is."

"You do look cute. And hot. Nice undies. Love the ruffles." I crawled up his body still fully dressed. 

"This wasn't the reaction I was hoping for..." 

"Sherlock,” I moaned and ground my hard cock into his leg as evidence. “You got the perfect reaction. But as long as you’re a captive audience, I think you’ve got something to say to me."

"Well, yes, I guess... " he stammered and squirmed as I licked his chest.

"I hardly think it’s fair. You should apologize as well, for eavesdropping," he said, pouting. "And I never asked you one detail about your past sex life. Why should I divulge mine?”

“Okay. Yeah. Maybe I shouldn’t have listened. I’m sorry. I like the rope by the way." I fingered the clothesline and rutted against him. 

“Your jeans are chafing me. I think you should remove them.”

Before I began to strip, I gave his cock a squeeze. “I wish I could have seen you do this. You used your mouth, didn’t you?”

"Lips and teeth and tongue. I can demonstrate."

"Mmm. I’d like that. And next time, I’d like to help you..."

Sherlock’s cock jumped in answer. I laughed, then bent down, kissed his dexterous mouth, and twirled my tongue deep inside. I pulled back, breathing hard.

"Please do," he said breathlessly.

As the mattress sank down more, the rope pulled taut against his wrists. He winced. 

"Too tight? Should I loosen them a bit?" 

"No. I like them tight. A bit of pain makes this better." 

"The panties are distracting," I said, running my index finger along the top and brushing over the head of his cock. "Pure silk."

"Y-yes."

I blew on top of it. "Light, thin," I said, then sat back on his legs and rubbed my hands against his thighs. 

"Want them off?" I asked.

He nodded so vigorously it tugged on his wrists and he winced again. 

My crooked grin grew wider as his cock jerked up, thrilled as I pulled away the panties. His mouth opened wide in a moan as I inched my hand around him, teased and grasped, then bending my head down, took one long lick on the end of his glistening cock. 

I slid up his chest, and he moaned as I nipped his left nipple, sucking and flicking my tongue after. I pinched the other, and he yelped.

"John, what are you going to do to me...fuck m-me?" he asked hopefully.

"Yeah, sure... give me a moment."

I stood up and stripped off my underwear and t-shirt. 

"John," he said with a wicked smile as he admired my swollen cock. "It's so big! You aren't going to  _ make  _ me suck it, are you?" 

"You're  _ too _ good at this." 

I climbed back on the bed on my knees and straddled his head. My cock bounced against his mouth.

"Open up those beautiful lips," I said, voice hoarse. He mustered the most wanton look possible as he gazed up at me. Eyes wide, nostrils flared. He opened his mouth achingly slow as I pushed inside his pink supple lips, gulping me down as far he could. My hands cradled the back of his head, inky-black curls twisted between my fingers, and his hips jerked into the air. Just the reaction I hoped for. As I fucked his mouth, his lips covered his teeth and increased the friction. The cords bit into his wrists, but he hardly seemed to notice. My cock was all he wanted. Seeing him so needy only made me harder and hotter. 

I pulled my cock out of his mouth with a pop.

"Shit, I'm going to shoot off right away if we don't stop," I said breathing hard. "We need to slow down if you want me to fuck you." 

His eyes grew wide. He knew what he was in for when he hooked his wrists around the bedpost. Permission to let go.

I wanted to let go.

I reached under the pillow for the lube. He cocked his eyebrow and smiled devilishly at me. My heart raced and pulse pounded in my temples. God, this was delicious. 

"John! Do that again with your eyes," he blurted. "Your pupils are so wide— they're screaming."

"They're screaming to fuck you. How ‘bout opening those legs wide too. I'll spread them for you. Or how ‘bout my cock," I said, gripping my thick dick in my hand. “It’ll split you in two.”

I unscrewed the cap and squeezed some lube on my fingers, then took my cock in hand and made a show of fisting myself up and down.

"John! Your cock is so huge! I don’t think I can take it. My God!”  His last word stuck in his throat as I shoved my fingers inside him. 

"You love that, don’t you?" 

He nodded. 

His stomach muscles twitched and his knees curled up as my fingers explored him. He whimpered and struggled as I caressed and stimulated his prostate. God this was great. 

"Thank you," he choked out. "But I need..." As the cords pulled on him, the thorns ached in my wrists.   


I grasped my cock and stroked it slowly rolling my thumb across my glans. Sweat was pouring off Sherlock. As I pressed down into him, my body slipped against his. I tried not to pull Sherlock with me and have the cords cut deeper into his wrists. If my cock hadn't have been doing all my thinking for me at that moment, I might have stopped and cut them, but we were too close to a spectacular climax to really give a shit. 

“I’m fine, John. My arms fell asleep a while ago.” His hips jerked up. 

Then I noticed. And stopped. "You're bleeding," I said. He honestly felt bad to see me panicked. I scooped up the big idiot best I could so that the rope wasn’t tugging as tightly, then knelt next to his head near the headboard and began carefully untying the knot. 

"It’s too tight," I said. “Your hands are cold.” He watched me above him, using my teeth to loosen the cord. 

The clothesline came free, and his arms flopped limply down. 

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You didn't," he said quietly. “And I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He tried to reach for me but his arm jerked up, an empty hook. On his second try, his hand grappled up stiffly and rested on my cheek. He tested his finger by brushing it under my eye. "See," he whispered, "just fine. Now, finish what you started."   


Just to prove a point, he managed to pick up the lube with his other hand. "I'll help you," he said, motioning for me to spoon beside him.

He scooted down into the mattress to meet me. 

"You are beautiful," I said, kissing him. He sucked on my tongue. He knew that always made me hot. My cock twitched. His nose twitched back. I giggled.

"What's so funny?" he asked. 

"You and your cute nose... "

"What?! It’s not cute. You’re the one with the cute button nose." He squirted the lube into his hands and found my cock. 

He nodded and spread his thighs, and I rolled on top of him. I gently pushed inside— slow and easy. I pumped into him, pressure and heat building, burning my chest and lungs. I gasped. 

"Finally," he groaned.“Harder. I’m not going to break.” His hands found my ass and pulled me into him. I bit his neck and kissed his jawline. My balls slapped against him as I rammed into him. 

I whispered into his ear. He thrusted against me. Faster. Harder. Back arching, hips pumping. His chest heaved as our mouths met. As our tongues danced, he increased our tempo, beating out an increasingly frantic time signature. He reached for his cock, and I put my hand over his for him to thrust between us. The blood pumped from heart to my groin as Sherlock led us into a crescendo. I was close, so close— he raised his long legs and wrapped them around my back and came, trembling, spilling sticky between us. His thighs tensed, and I came.

We held each other and nodded off. And before I fell asleep, I hoped to keep him with me always.

\------------------------------

We took our usual walk after dinner, exploring the great Southwest Michigan outdoors. Past the gardens, into the umbrella of the oaks and elms and sassafras, the carpet of moss and ferns below dappled by the sun.  We took our time walking down the hill, following a farmer's old fieldstone wall, a long-forgotten property marker.  We sat on the cushiony moss by the pond we'd adopted and shooed away mosquitoes and watched an old painted turtle sun himself.

Out here, we could think and not hurry. If we wanted a slow leisurely kiss, there was both time and space for it. And today, we did. Soft sweet lips and wind whisping through the ancient oak above. His fingers ran smooth through my sandy hair, and I inhaled the dank smell of insect repellant on his neck. 

I heard a branch snap, and saw movement in the brush.

Not a deer. Too loud. Then I heard crunching leaves behind and over the crest of the hill. 

We both got up and walked away from the footfalls and around the pond when I heard a familiar voice. 

"You shouldn't be out this far," Irene commented, stepping out in the open. Sherlock looked at her warily. I was confused as to why she’d even be out here.

We walked toward her.

"Scared me for a moment there," I said. Then I noticed Irene looking up at the crest of the hill. 

My eyes followed hers. Moriarty stood with two other men, one with semi-automatic rifle pointed with Sherlock in his sights, the other with his iPhone out. Moriarty started down the hill. 

I heard Irene yell “No!” as I lunged to get between Sherlock and the shooter. The impact threw me sideways into Sherlock. I stumbled, grabbing Sherlock to pull him behind me, trying to shield him when the second shot ripped open my shoulder and struck Sherlock in the chest. His shirt ripped from my hands as he flew back. The crack of the back of his head hitting a rock echoed in the silent wood. 

My knees buckled and I fell beside him. I cradled his head into my lap. He grasped my right hand tightly. 

What I couldn't remember before, every bit I'd forgotten, I now recalled. The accident, the hospital. Sherlock’s confession of love. 

Panic and doubt ate me. There I was, crying, the back of Sherlock's head sticky in my hand. Afraid I couldn't do it. I looked up at Irene— her face etched with guilt. 

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” she said.

"John, I'm cold," he said, coughing. Blood bubbled on his lips. "Cold," he said again. I hugged him to me and sobbed into his hair. 

His blood warmed my chest. Brushing his face with my hands, I prayed for guidance: how was I supposed to heal him? So much blood— part of it mine. I tasted metal in my mouth. I pressed my forehead into his and begged for some great resplendent light. Sherlock coughed up blood. 

"Show me now," I begged. Laying on hands as if I were a healer in some old time revival.  _ False healer _ . Please don't let  _ me _ be false. I opened his shirt, and I saw the cavity— the bone and gore and the blood. So much blood. The moss was soaked in it. How could I heal this? I laid my hand on the gaping wound and asked, no, pleaded...please work... _ please _ .

I could hear them all near me. Breathless. Watching, waiting. Moriarty sneering. Moran, emotionless next to him with a rifle in his hand. Irene, pale and trembling.

Sherlock coughed again, splattered my face with his blood. 

My right hand shook so violently as I pressed down on his chest that I thought I’d shake myself out of my skin. 

"Heal," I whispered. "Heal, heal, heal." Then, "Oh God," my heart pounded in my eardrums. My  other hand held Sherlock's tight, then his grip loosened. No warm squeeze against my hand. His eyes clouded. I let go of his hand and pressed his chest into mine. Clutching his back, blood soaking me. 

"No," I screamed. "I won't let you go." I closed my eyes, reaching into that black pit to find those bright sparks. Remembering what it was like to be him and at once inside him, making love to him. I had to find that. 

"You can’t..." I choked. “I won’t let you.”

The spiral and lights. Hard and soft and loud and clean pure light. I heard and felt him. "Please," I begged. "Please." And I took his darkness into me. Dizzy, like I was falling off a cliff. But no, I was still kneeling, searching his eyes, then his long fingers gripped mine. 

And he gasped. 

Sobbing, I watched his eyelids flutter, pupils widen.

I kissed his forehead and rocked him in my arms. Wiped the blood from his chest where no wound remained. 

"How touching," Moriarty rasped. 

I broke away from the elation and pain, meeting Moran's eyes as he stood beside Moriarty. My hands shook as I wiped the blood from Sherlock’s lips.

Moriarty smiled. The red angry scars on his face and neck were hideous reminders that he was slowly falling to pieces— that he needed to steal my blood to be whole. Irene stood next to him. She stared down at Sherlock. Moriarty turned to her, and she backed away in disgust. 

My chest burned yet I felt frozen in place. I tried to stand and found that I couldn’t. 

"What? No hug? No handshake?" he said to Irene.

“You told me you wouldn’t kill him,” she said.

“I didn’t. At least not permanently.”   


Moran was a stone statue as he watched Moriarty and Irene. My jaw hurt from clenching my teeth. Irene. Why? Her moral compass was always a bit misdirected, but this level of betrayal was off the map. 

Moriarty laughed. "You don't think we could have gotten to you this easily without your little  _ friends' _ help?" 

"What the fuck is are you saying?" I rasped.

“Miss Adler and Dr. Deal,” Moriarty said, bouncing on his heels.

Sherlock shook his head in denial.

"Sorry, Sherlock. I have to admit that Deal took some time to persuade, but in the end it’s always about self-preservation. A man might sell his soul— or his former lover— for it."

"Fuck you," I cried.

"I’d like that. But maybe some other time. We have other things to attend to now,” he said, waving me off and then kneeling down next to us. He started to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, but I grabbed his wrist as Sherlock jerked his head away. I was too weak to snap his wrist, though I tried.

“Sherlock’s continued health is up to you. We'll leave him safe with Irene. But only on the condition that you come along quietly with us."

"Could you tell that fucker to quit recording us with his phone?" I said.

“It’s substantiation.”

“More like wanking material.”

Moriarty laughed, then nodded. The camera clicked off. 

"Video captures so many treasured moments," said Moriarty. He took the semi-automatic from Moran. A sadistic smile played on his lips as he looked down at Sherlock. "He's very attractive. I can see why you enjoy his company and why Miss Adler covets him so. And his touch makes you come, doesn't it John? Makes me wonder, what it'd be like..."

"That's enough," Irene said, stepping closer to him.

"Now the question is, are you coming or do we kill your boyfriend for good this time?" Moriarty sneered, resting the rifle's muzzle against Sherlock's head. “Let’s see you fix that!”

“Jim. It’s not like Watson’s capable of fighting you off in his condition. Just take him! Don’t you dare harm him!”

“Oh, honey. I  _ dare _ . I always dare. And besides, Johnny needs to beg,” Moriarty said, caressing the muzzle against Sherlock’s cheek as he blinked up at me. “Beg me, Johnny boy.”

“Don’t do it, John,” Sherlock choked out.

"Stop. Just stop. I'll go,” I said, but Moriarty moved the muzzle to Sherlock’s temple. “You want me to beg? Fine. Take me.  _ Please.  _ I'll go. But if I do and you do come back here and touch him, I swear to God, I'll find a way to kill your sorry motherfucking ass no matter how damned long it takes."

"That's hardly polite."

"Oh, suck me," I spit at him.

"That can be arranged," he answered, his finger tightening on the trigger. 

“Please,” I blinked. “Take me. Do what you want with me.”

Moran kneeled down on the other side of me and pulled a syringe from his pocket. The same icy stare was in his eyes. He jabbed the needle into my arm with same look he had when he'd turned the blade. Then there was pity. The last thing I heard was Sherlock's rough voice saying no. And then time slipped away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In coming chapter: I am so sorry that John's in a bad place, but through this he learns about himself and his powers. The story's magical realism and sci fi elements come alive as each chapter unfolds.


	17. Promises to Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some big surprises await in this chapter.

I woke from a horrible dream. 

Or was this the dream? The room burned— hot bright pin pricks bounced off the stark white walls, stabbing through my eyeballs. The light cast a long shadow, searing my brain and sparking synapses. Yet my eyes refused to focus; my arms refused to move. 

I couldn't turn my head.

Every breath like fire. I couldn't clear my throat— my mouth was so damn dry.

Sleep.

All I wanted were peaceful dreams. All I received were phantasms and night terrors. Time held no meaning.

\----------------------------

I'd been fading in and out. Waking to empty space. Seeing little, knowing less. My last clear memory was of Sherlock... of the woods. Moriarty. Irene’s betrayal. Moran’s cold eyes. My mind was muddled between nightmares. One waking and one sleeping.

I woke once thinking I was back in the hospital bed after the car accident. I heard Bernice joking, but it was only a phantom memory.

The bed was just as hard and unforgiving as the one I'd been in then, except now my backside was raw from days trapped in the same position. No windows in this cubicle. I recalled the sunny ones facing east, and how upset I was when the sun woke me. I'd open the blinds and kiss the windows to have blue skies, daisy curtains and cushy recliners again. The room was small, square and sterile. It looked like a hospital room. Maybe even  _ was  _ a hospital room— I wasn't sure. The bed definitely belonged in a hospital, the kind that needed to immobilize patients. The restraints left me unable to move an inch. Or scratch. Only turn my head. An IV in each arm: one with blood going out, another with fluids coming in. Then there was the catheter. I hated those fucking things. At least I was out cold when they put it in.

I could move my head, but was too weak to do it. Too weak to say much but a few syllables. Not that there was anyone to speak to most of the time.

A pretty nurse came in and out. Nothing like Bernice. She was slim and professional with long brown hair that she kept tied back. She did her job, came in, took vitals, then left. No talking.

Her hands were sure and kind. Sometimes I'd wake and see sadness behind those brown eyes. I'd turn my head away. 

Most of the time she came in alone. Sometimes she'd bring in an attendant.

Or she followed behind Moriarty. With Moran.

I heard them a few times, buzzing and buzzing, and I didn't understand, but I wanted to understand. What was happening to me? Moriarty and Moran sounded like that mosquito beating at my window. 

I spun and fell. They drained away life one bag of blood at a time. And it kept my brain from firing. I heard them argue... over me.

_ Enough for today?  _

_ He'll never wake up?  _

_ How much blood is too much _ ?

I wanted to know the same.

\----------------------------

Seemed like weeks, could have been days, Moriarty came in again with Moran. They tried to wake me. My eyes refused. First I couldn't, then I wouldn't. I instinctively recoiled when Moriarty touched me. Hate. That was what I felt. Hate oozing out of him. Hate and lust. 

Questions. More questions. I played mute, dead and benumbed. 

Then Moriarty's sour breath whispered next to my ear, _ "I know you hear me, Johnny boy." _

He licked my cheek, but I didn’t flinch. His hand slid down my thigh. Every muscle in my body wanted to recoil, but I fought it with every speck of will I had.

Moran did nothing. I thought I'd seen something decent inside him. It was a job. Like shooting me, shooting Sherlock. He had to know that just a touch from that sick bastard tortured me. 

\----------------------------

Half awake alone, in the room, confused, wondering where I was, why I was. Then I remembered: I was that brittle twig snapping under Moriarty's feet.

Over and over, he walked down the hill. My brain was merciless, replaying the last few minutes I had with Sherlock. The shooting, the blood. The horror.

With a start, I came back into the world. My first prayer was that Sherlock was safe. With Irene. I didn’t want to wish that but I had to.

I would have cried if I had tears.

I heard the door open, and she came in: the kind nurse. She was surprised I was awake. Her eyes shifted down, unable to look at me, unable to connect. I physically ached from her downcast gaze, her thin lips pressed into a frown. I wondered how many she'd taken care of like me, and how many discarded souls had lain in this bed before me. I didn't blame her for looking away.

"Good afternoon," she said finally, clearing her throat. 

Afternoon. Morning. Evening. Time didn't matter. Day? I didn't know what day. I would have laughed if I still had a sense of humor.

She checked my IVs, nodding her head, biting her top lip, punching each bit of information into her electronic notebook. Setting it aside, she lifted up the itchy sheet. It was agony not to be able to scratch with my arms and chest strapped tight to the bed. She pretended not to care, but when she touched my hand, I felt it. A sliver of hope filled me— someone in these walls felt _something_ what happened to me.

She took my blood pressure, and gently lifted the sheet, which bunched at my waist. The chill of the room hit me, and I shivered when she pressed the cold stethoscope to my chest.

"Take a deep breath... now let it out," she instructed, pulling down the sheet further. Fuck. I didn't even rate a shitty hospital gown. She modestly covered me up again. 

She ducked into the bathroom, measuring my fluids. I could hear her dump out the urine in the toilet then flush. 

She washed her hands and came back to check my temp.

"Would you like a sip of water? Some ice?" she asked after she punched in more data. 

I nodded— _God, I would kill for it or kiss her_.

She helped raise my head. I took one gulp. My throat clenched. Cradling on the back of my neck with her hand brought blue sparks behind my eyes. She cared.

"Slowly," she coaxed, and I swallowed twice more.

"How long have I been here?" I managed to ask.

"Over two weeks."

The words hit like darts. Two weeks in and out of darkness. Two weeks flat on the bed from one tangled nightmare to another. _Two weeks_.

“And where is here?”

“Buenos Aires.”

She gave me a few more sips. My throat thanked her— I actually smiled.

Then my stomach gurgled. 

"Want something to eat?" she asked.

Food becomes Nirvana to you when your only nourishment comes one drop at a time from a clear plastic bag. God, I needed to get my stomach lining off my backbone.

"Yes, I would, but..."  I closed my eyes. How had my life become so fucked? I was afraid to eat. He was waiting for me. What would happen as soon as Moriarty knew I was coherent?    


Now that I was drinking and eating…

This was some kind of fucking mind game. Why restrain me otherwise? I was too weak to move. I didn't even want to think about why I was naked under these sheets.

"I'll get you something."

She left.

I almost called after her and asked her not to leave. The room was cold, and I didn't want to be alone with my thoughts.  My hands began trembling, then my arms and legs. Before the nurse came back I felt like my body was rattling to pieces. Better her thinking I was racked with cold from thin blood than shaking with terror wondering what Moriarty would do to me.

When she came back, she wrapped me in scratchy warm blankets and fed me nasty oatmeal without any brown sugar. It tasted like heaven. She scraped some off with her spoon that I'd dribbled on my chin. I felt like a one-year-old being spoon-fed. 

"That's enough," I said, shivering again. 

"I probably should have given you jello first. Are you okay? Let me know if you think you can’t hold this down."

"I’ll be fine. What's your name?" I managed. Might as well make small talk. Better than thinking.

She hesitated. "Molly— Molly Hooper."

"So, Molly Hooper," I continued, "how long am I in for?" Bad question. But I needed to see her reaction. 

I didn't like it.

Her brows furrowed and her lips thinned, then came the blank stare. She touched my hand: _You're not leaving._

I didn’t really want to know more, but I didn’t pull away. _No one leaves this place the same._ I stared just as blankly at the wall behind her. White glossy paint on stucco. Nothing on the walls. Not even a chart.

Then I met her eyes, and she pulled her hand away.

"You don’t seem like the kind of person who would work someplace like this. You must have some reason that brought you here."

Her teeth tugged at her lip as she decided if she should talk to me or not, then she sighed. 

"You’re right. I do have a story. I owe the Community. At least I owe them my life and my family's life, but it’s not something I feel comfortable sharing. Let’s just say I came here to pay a debt."

"So you work as a nurse out of obligation."

"You could say that. But actually I’m a pathologist. Since coming here, I work for the Community in whatever capacity I am told. To tell the truth, I prefer this in some respects."

"But why? I m-mean," my teeth chattered, "you're a good person, why would you want to be part of this?"

She laughed, surprised. "How do even know what kind of person I am? Oh,” she said, realizing as she looked at her hand. “Of course you know.” She touch her fingers and looked at me curiously. “You’re right. I care too much. I guess it comes down to... What if I didn’t care? What if I wasn't the one here with you today? Or with another patient?  There would be someone else, someone not so empathetic. Maybe someone cruel."

"Sometimes that can be better. I need to know what to expect."

"I was told as soon as you were awake to give you your first injection."

"Injection?"

"Yes, I have it here," she patted the front pocket of her smock. "It's the serum— he ordered it for you. He’s already used it on himself. I don’t know what it will do to you, so I can’t answer your question."

I knew why he’d want it, but why me? "You’re smart. You must have some idea what they intend."

"Probably to make you stronger, so they can draw more blood and make more serum." She hesitated.

"And?"

"There's so much I  _ don't  _ know. Usually we just use serum we have stored. This was made from what was drawn from you. Dr. Moriarty's orders. I only know that you're not the same as the others. They're interested in you. They expect the serum to contain new properties."

I wondered it had done to someone like her, someone who cared, to force herself to watch people converted into vending machines. "How many others?” I asked. 

“Over the time I’ve been here, at least fifty.”

“Does he know I'm awake yet?"

"No, I haven't told him. But I'll have to soon. He might already know," she said, nodding to the corner of the room. A camera.

Her voice shook, betraying her hate. She knew he was dangerous. No sense putting her at risk, too.

"Give me the serum."

She reached in and pulled out the syringe; I fixed my eyes on the needle emptying into my IV. 

As it dripped in, a warmth spread up through my arm to my heart, and then in red hot ribbons the serum coursed through the rest of my body. I tasted the roses in the back of my throat, and my cock hardened. A stiff prick and a catheter— not on my list of turn ons. It pulled. My eyelids became heavy and my heart wanted Sherlock. I whispered his name.

Molly checked my pulse again.

I was dizzy and the lights exploded in my head just like in the garden. And like then, I lost consciousness and an artificiality tainted the high but I still dreamed …

I was back in Sherlock's apartment. It was our first night together, and Sherlock's chicken casserole dish clattered from my hands to the table. Vanilla candles and cinnamon spice filled the room. Sherlock had me pressed down on the dining room table, digging my backside into its edge as his cock ground delightfully into mine. He sucked on my tongue trapped between his teeth. I groaned. Instead of pulling back this time, he reached for my jeans, unbuttoning them and sliding his hand around my cock, stroking me slowly. I bucked into his hand as he milked me, and I whimpered into his mouth. I let him push me flat onto the table. He released my tongue.

I had another chance. I told him now. This time, I whispered, "I love you" into his ear. 

Then suddenly we were in the garden, my jeans thrown aside in the dirt, and Sherlock's cock was pushing inside me. His long finger moving urgently up and down my shaft. I knew this was just a dream, but it felt so real, so good. Sherlock felt real from his musky precome to his erotic sweat the seeped through my pores. He drove into me harder. As he thrust into me deeper, I came calling his name over and over, telling him how much I loved him, weeping into his neck.  I hoped he heard me in _his_ dreams. I wanted to both be safe and back together.

Then came a knock and a cold jolt, like a bucket of water to the face. I sprang from a dead sleep to wide awake, feeling sick and abandoned. 

Although I really didn’t need to see to know, I opened my eyes. Moriarty stood next to my bed, moving the covers off me. His face, a young man’s face. His hands, a young man’s hands. He was completely healed — on the outside. His eyes revealed his inner sickness, a teeming mass of depravity.

He leered at my cock. My wet dream had left me with a half hard cock and globs of come stuck to my belly. I regretted that I couldn’t make my body disappear down into this unforgiving mattress. 

"Don’t touch him," Molly spoke up. It was the second time today I wanted to kiss her. He ignored her completely, and I flinched as Moriarty flicked my nipple. Another hand snatched his and tore it away. 

"That's enough," he said.

Until that instant, I didn’t recognize him with his head down and in the scrubs, but he looked at me now with all the regret of a condemned man.

Peter Deal.

Molly was on the other side of the bed, and she pulled the sheet and blanket back up under my chin. I really did feel like kissing her.

"It's not enough. We need to know what he can do. Test him," Moriarty said.

“That’s not a test,” Deal said. “And it’s exactly what I said would negate my agreement with The Community.”

Hate is a destructive force. But there’s also something to be said about how it can give a hopeless man a purpose. I sure had one.

“I don’t believe this,” I said. “You backstabbing dick!”

Moriarty smiled like a five-year-old with a bag of candy. His pleasure over my displeasure made him shine like a thousand red candles. Deal, on the other hand, looked like he’d executed his best friend. In a way, I guess he had.

“You’re always so slow, Johnny,” Moriarty beamed. “He’s been with us from the start. Do keep up.” He adjusted my bed so that I was sitting. 

"What's the matter?" I laughed at Moriarty. "Poor Jimmy! I’m so sorry. My super-serum will never be enough. Know why? Because no matter what you do every morning you’re going to wake up, look between those scrawny legs and still have that itty-bitty penis."

It happened so fast that Deal couldn't stop him. He hit me hard in the mouth. I spat my blood back at him. At least it was something different. Deal grabbed him, slamming him into the bathroom door. 

"You're going to regret ever fucking touching me," he hissed at Deal. "And you..." he said to me, " _ you  _ will never see your precious Sherlock again. The Community will let me do to you and that nosey reporter whatever I see fit. And Deal, he won’t stop me next time. If you were smart, you'd be nice to me.  _ Very  _ nice, because before too long you’ll see just how big my penis really is."

Since I'd rather be dead, I had the last word. “Oh, Jimmy, you and I both know that you can’t sustain an erection.” I smiled after I said it. If Deal hadn’t been holding him, he would have hit me again. Moriarty slammed the door. Molly shifted her weight, and Dr. Deal watched after him, gripping my mattress.

"When I get out of here, I’m going to kill him," I said. “Slowly.”

"It’s not very smart to taunt him like that,” he said to me, then turned to Molly. “If he comes in here without me, call me immediately." Just how fast could he get to my room? Pretty fucking fast, I hoped. “He has a habit of turning off cameras. He’s been warned not to do it, but people here tend to look the other way. Moriarty’s an expert at getting what he wants and finding people’s weaknesses.”

“Thanks for that comforting thought.” Being watched the entire time made my skin crawl, but knowing that Moriarty could flip the switch so he could play some of his so-called games made me want to throw up my oatmeal.

"How's your mouth?" he asked.

"I've been hit a lot harder. Like when I saw  _ you _ standing there.”

“I really have no choice, John.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“No there isn’t. You don’t understand.”

“Yes I do. He’s an expert at finding people’s weakness. It’s easy when you’re a coward. There’s so many of them. Moriarty! Pays people to shoot me and beats me when I'm tied up." I pulled at the restraints. "If you really gave a fuck, you’d do something about these. It's nice that you defended my virtue, but I’d rather have a fighting chance." 

As much as I was able, I pulled against the straps on my arms again. Deal's mouth twitched, and he scratched his cheek.

"I'd like to, John, but I can't. They don't want you getting up and out of here."

" _ They _ ?” I spat the word out like it was poison. “ _ They _ ? I think you mean  _ we _ .”

"What would you prefer? Let Moriarty kill Sherlock? I can’t let that happen! He intended on taking you without my help. I didn't know until that morning about this insanity! And he has the Community's backing. I had no choice. I have no choice. I’m sorry, John."

“What’s that got to do with choice? That’s not even an excuse: It would have happened no matter what?” I closed my eyes. “Where’s Sherlock? Is he safe?"

“Yes.” 

“With Irene.”

“No. I made sure that didn’t happen. He’s in a safe house. Mycroft moved him. And it sure wasn’t in the plan to shoot him. Moriarty is a wildcard.”

“And Moran is just taking orders from his boss.”

 Deal nodded.

“Get these off. Like I'm in any condition to just leave? How would you like it being tied to a bed while a psychotic pervert ogles  _ your _ privates?"

"I'll do what I can. And I’ll try to make sure doesn't get in here."

“That’s reassuring..." I stared up at him. This was the man that Sherlock once loved. Sherlock was no fool. What had he seen in Deal? "Prove it to me." 

He hesitated a moment, then his hand rested on mine. I tried my best to read this man without revealing my own disgust. No way I was going to let him know how bad I hurt.

"He's going to  _ stay _ safe. Swear," I said.

He blinked. 

"Swear," I repeated.

"I swear. I swear."

I closed my eyes, done playing King Hamlet’s ghost. He'd keep his word at least to the best of his ability, yet a part of him was shaded, hiding something. But Sherlock safe was what mattered most. I'd like him to swear he'd keep me safe, but that wasn't something he could ever promise or keep. He read my thoughts exactly. 

"The Community wants Moriarty's help, but they won't condone him beating or molesting you. They need you in one piece. I'm here to make sure he doesn't harm you and have been given charge of your protection. The problem is, the serum made from you isn't working as planned. They thought it would mimic your abilities. Instead, it works the same as the other serum, albeit longer lasting and more potent, yet no new properties."

My head ached so much my teeth hurt from his unspoken words: They needed to know how I did it. That meant experiments. Which meant Moriarty.

"They’ve got experts with theories, and of course they want  _ more _ than theories. They want to know how you heal others. Some of the Community think that makes you dangerous. That's the main reason for those restraints. There are some who've had a theory regarding your abilities. I have to ask. Mycroft in particular was positive from the start the serum won't work. Now they're starting to listen to him instead of Moriarty."

I closed my eyes. God, I was having difficulty following Deal's explanations, but Mycroft? That would mean he knows where I am, that he could get me out of here if he wanted. I didn’t know if I should feel despair or hope. 

One thing I didn’t feel, though: "I don't feel dangerous," I said. as I lost consciousness.

\-----------------------------------

Mind waking in a mist, I heard voices: Moriarty, Deal, and an oddly familiar female voice. 

No need to prolong this, so I opened my eyes to a room full of people.

Men in scrubs and some in suits. Closer to me, Moriarty stood next to Dr. Deal and a woman I’d never met sat next to my bed in the beige vinyl patient chair. A pretty petite blonde with eyes that reminded me of home. She leaned into the arm of the chair, left leg crossed neatly over the right, her simple black, A-line shirt hiking up a half inch. Seeing I was awake, she nodded, the room’s attention turned to me. She smiled. As she spoke, I recognized Blake’s poem:

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And Heaven in a Wild Flower

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.

 

“We’ve never met, but it’s time we had!” she said. “I’d shake your hand, but I’m afraid that you’re all tied up!”

"That poem is what you're all about," Deal said. "Seeing the universe in the simplest things. All things, all sciences.”

“More than that. It’s tied to people who were like you, Mr. Watson,” she said. “Let’s start off right. No more talking around and through you. I’m talking to you,” she said, tapping the bed with her red nails for emphasis. “You never knew your birth parents, but they were bio-astronomers,” she said, sitting forward. “I met them. They weren't innocents. They knew who and what you were. That’s why they hid you."

"And what am I?" 

"More dangerous than an H-bomb,” she said. “Kind as a kitten. Naive as a two-year-old."

"That's not very flattering," I remarked. 

"I think it's very flattering considering what you could have become," she responded, looking over at Moriarty, who sneered at her.

"Bioastronomy wasn’t just a hobby or career; it was their life. Not like my parents delving into crystals." She smiled knowingly at me, waiting for a reaction.

“What?” I said. 

Moriarty came to life. “Surprise!” he said, flinging up his arms. “Meet Sherlock’s secret sister!”

“ _ Sister _ ? He doesn’t have a sister.” A wave of cold, icy panic spread from my chest. 

"You say that like it's blasphemy," she said, bottom lip pouting. Then she grabbed my hand. It was like meteors colliding. Too much information to process at one time. I was forced to rely on reflexive reaction to grasp what I could from the blast. When she let go, I knew two things: she was Sherlock’s sister and she was dangerous beyond comprehension. 

"Bioastronomy," Deal laughed. “People throw it in with all that metaphysical hocus pocus. I’ve heard it all before— just a bunch of sciences all rolled into one. They searched for intelligent life outside in the universe. So many refuse to believe it. Extraterrestrial life! Scoff and call it New Age crap."

"If it makes you feel better, Johnny, my parents and dear brother Mycroft conspired to keep me a secret from my baby brother. They were Sherlock’s parents, but they were never parents to me. Carl Sagan wannabes who waste their lives watching the stars when they should be watching out for their own children.  They locked me up and sent me away just because of some incident with Mycroft. What kind of parent sends their five-year-old daughter to live with stuffy dirty old men? They let the Community became my caretakers,” Eurus said. “Ironic that your parents sent you away for the same reason: Because you’re  _ dangerous _ .”

“No,” I said, “my family did it to protect me from the Community. Sounds like your family sent you to the Community to be protected from you.”

Her laughter filled the room and a part of me liked it. 

“Oh, you’re wrong,” she said, standing and over me. “You’re just as dangerous as me. They saw what their son was. They were highly intelligent. Your parents had ingenious theories about their origins. Alien life forms! I read all of it: All of their work.” She turned Moriarty. “Maybe if Johnny closes his eyes he can make the Universe disappear? Do it Johnny!" 

Alarm crept into the stiff white shirts' faces, and some of them stepped back. 

_ They believed her _ . It made me wonder just how close she came to the truth. Now my laughter filled the room, but there was nothing about it that I liked. 

"Oh my God,” I said, “The truth is out there, and we’re all at Comic Con’s X-Files convention."

"Johnny,” she said, sitting on the bed, “what do you think happens when you heal yourself?"

"I don't know, but I bet you’re going to tell me."

"I don’t have to because I think you _ do _ know. I think you've known pretty much how it all works from the beginning, you just don't want to admit it to yourself."

I thought she was giving me a whole lot more credit than she should.

I found heaven right under my nose. Universe? I don't need no stinkin' Universe. I have a rose. Eureka! The answer is there. Look, little thorns! Mica's stuck right in my wrist! Oh yeah, and I bet William Blake's related to me, too.

"Well, you're partly right," she said. Reading my mind? What was she?

"I always  _ thought _ I was related to Bill."

"The rose is important, but it's not the Universe. Not even close." She scooted closer to me, but was careful not to touch me. "You _ are _ an alien."

"You're cracked.” And I almost told her that her parents were right to put her away, but that would be, as I tell Sherlock,  _ a bit not good _ . I looked over at Deal who was also nodding, agreeing with this insanity. “And you! You practice psychiatry in a nudist colony! You’ve over-exposed your brain!"

"Tell me what it's like when you heal," Moriarty said, slithering forward like a snake. 

"Why the fuck would I tell  _ you  _ anything? If what I have is so damn dangerous, I sure as shit don't want any psychopath like you having the power." 

He thought my comment was funny. Deal, on the other hand, stepped protectively to the other side of my the bed.

"Johnny boy,” Moriarty crooned with a feral grin. “Do you think these people give a rat's ass about what happens to you, or how they get their precious power?" 

No, I didn't. I had no delusions. As Peter's finger brushed the top of my hand, I knew he'd seen Sherlock. That he wanted something from me as well. I didn't know what, but I didn't care just as long as he kept Sherlock safe

"I know you can see into Deal same as you saw inside me," Eurus said, ignoring Moriarty. "But there's something else that sets you apart. Why don't we do this in reverse. I'll tell you what's happening inside you and see if I'm not correct." 

I closed my eyes. Maybe they'd all go away if I counted to five.

_ One. _

"When you touch someone, you become part of their essence,” Eurus said. “Connected. Being intimate intensifies this. How you do so comes from outside yourself. You tap into this power. What happens to time when you do this? I'll tell you..."

_ Two. _

"Time becomes altered, twisted. Either reversed or accelerated. You aren't healing, you're taking your body back to a time before it was injured and restores it. I believe this is what all the healers do. Timelines existing simultaneously."

_ Three. _

"You are unique. Only you can do this outside of yourself. To move an object, an equal and opposite reaction must occur. Pain is that opposite reaction. To overcome it, you go back or shift ahead in time. A paradox of a sort. But it’s so slight that the opposite reaction is but a pinprick. Other times without this shifting, such as healing my dear brother, you find yourself depleted and it’s debilitating."

"Nice theory," Deal said, crossing his arms. “But this isn’t just yours.”

_ Four. _

“No.”

The room became a void. What she said made perfect sense. I had a feeling, though, that anything she told me would make perfect sense. I couldn’t trust her laugh or smile or words. She had some sort of uncanny persuasive power. Of course, at the moment there was no fucking way I could prove my theory or hers or whoever the theory belonged to. 

Unless...I kept my my eyes closed. I clenched my fists. 

_ Five.  _

I wished them all out of the room. Or for a time before they all entered. 

I opened my eyes. 

Nope. So much for theories. They were all still there. With the breathing technique Peter and Sherlock taught me, I tried again. Slowly. 

"Leave," I whispered. Maybe magic words would work. "Be gone." Nothing. They all still stood around me. 

In back of the room, the door slowly opened, and no one walked in or out. Not one person noticed except Eurus. I’d opened the door, or as Eurus explained, had taken the door back to a time when it was open. And Moran was gone.

"He’s tired," said Eurus. "I think it's time for all of you to go."


	18. And Miles to Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's another action filled chapter complete with angst. It's so much fun unveiling the bits and pieces. A bit of a twist again this chapter too. Enjoy!

Time to give the gift of life again. Molly tried for the third time to find a good vein to start a new IV, slapping my wrist with two fingers to get my veins to pop. 

I  _ used _ to give during the Red Cross blood drives two or three times a year. My veins never collapsed. She jabbed the needle in for another try. No luck. I don't think I'll give at a drive ever again.

"I'll try one more time." I looked away this time as she stuck me. She sighed with relief. Found one. 

Before she hooked me up completely, I decided to try asking again to use the bathroom. I hoped she'd let me go. After she'd made me suffer through digging for veins, I thought I might stand a chance. I'd beg. Look sad. Maybe whine. Nothing more degrading than pleading for permission, but I felt desperate to get out of these restraints. 

I could see her tallying up pros and cons in her brain while I gave her my best pathetic puppy eyes. She seemed skittish today.

"I won't try to get away... just let me up and go," I asked. 

It worked. She started undoing the restraints. 

"Thanks."

"Dr. Moriarty ordered the video camera removed in this room."

I watched her for a moment.  She kept her gaze focused on her hands as she undid the buckles.    


She unstrapped the four main restraints, and leaned over me to unbuckle my hands. My arms felt disconnected and I watched my hands open and close like Frankenstein’s monster. 

I stood on my first try. Surprising how well I walked after being flat on my back for over two weeks. My legs were like my hands, an amputee's ghost limbs reversed. I had to take a moment to convince myself they were still attached, and even then still felt their absence. Molly was pleased to see that I didn’t need her help. With my catheter bag strapped to my leg, I wobbled ahead with Molly close beside me. 

She shut the bathroom door behind. Good. No need to have her follow me in— times like these I needed privacy and plenty of reading material. At least I had privacy. 

When done, I washed my hands and got a close look at myself in the mirror. I looked older. Circles under my eyes and a pasty complexion. I scratched the scruff on my face that looked to be the start of a decent beard. I traced my fingers up to my temple and began to think about Molly’s statement. I knew exactly why a man obsessed with taking pictures of me would remove the video camera. 

So no one else could see. 

I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet. Sure fucking burns when strawberry jam toast and oatmeal come out your nose. 

"Are you all right?" Molly's voice squeaked with alarm. 

“Fine, I’ll be fine.” No, I wasn't. I recollected Moriarty's touch and heaved again. So much for breakfast.

My hands shook on the cold porcelain sink as I pulled myself up. Turning on the cold tap, I splashed water in my face as Molly knocked on the door. _ God, I wanted out of here.  _

Pushing Moriarty out of my mind wasn't going to make him go away. I needed to get away. I needed a plan, but it was beyond me to come up with one. I could ask Molly for help, but how much could she do? I couldn't count on Deal to watch Moriarty, and I didn't trust him to get me out. Eurus seemed my best bet, but I didn't know if I would ever see her again. Sooner or later Moriarty was going to get me alone. No cameras—no witnesses. 

Sherlock would have a plan. I wanted Sherlock safe but I also knew that if he could, he would come after me. That terrified me almost as much. I'd given up all hope of Mycroft showing up and saving me.

I turned off the tap, unrolled some toilet paper and blew my nose. "Fine, just fucking wonderful," I mumbled, wiping my mouth. 

Fuck it. What do I care what Molly thinks? I’m out of pride. Not like she hasn't heard me moaning Sherlock's name. 

Where would I run to if I got out of this place? I was naked in Buenos Aires, which sounded like a bad comedy. 

My best bet was still to just get out even if I didn't know where to go. If Moriarty got me alone and smelled the fear in me, I might as well just spread my legs and let him fuck me like a whore. I recalled Lestrade and what he did in my place years ago: He emasculated the son of a bitch. Taunted him, told him he couldn't get it up for Aphrodite. Stood up to him. As if I could do that while I was strapped to a bed. 

My hands were cold. The air conditioning in this place was set at Make Ice. I ran warm water over them.

Molly knocked at the door again. “I’m coming in.”

"No, I'll be right out..."

I pressed my forehead on the cool glass. If I couldn’t get anyone’s help, I’d have to face Moriarty, find his vulnerable spot before he found mine. As much as I hated the idea of him touching me, it was the only way to see his weakness.

My breath steamed the mirror, clouding my reflection.  That's what I was in this place, a fuzzy non-person. I wrote my name on the mirror. Maybe that would make me human again.   


The back of my throat burned as I choked back the fear.

I took a deep breath, turned the knob, and opened the door just as Molly began to unlock it. I didn't want her to get in trouble. Taking three shaky steps, I walked back into the room.

I sat down on the bed and looked her in the eyes. I hated the pity I saw looking back. 

“Molly, could you leave off the the restraints?”

She chewed her lip. 

“I’m sorry, John. But I have to do this. It’s not just about me. It’s my family.”

I knew she didn’t work for them just to repay a debt. No way I was being responsible for someone else’s death. I nodded and laid down. Molly brushed tears back as she refastened the restraints, not as tight as before, but not loose enough to get free. Maybe she should have left me harnessed to the bed. Her touch hurt more than her tears. Knowing what other people feel is a burden. 

I read the questions in her head as I choked back the bile building in the back of my throat. Wondering what happened to me in the bathroom. She was pretty damn close to being right. Confirming her suspicions would only make her feel more responsible for me and hurt her more than she was hurting now. I closed my eyes.  _ Please, don't ask.  _

She buckled the other side, but before she left, she squeezed my hand. A flash. Something else inside her. Some bit of hope. Although there was a kind of finality to her closing the door, she revealed a promise to me. To help me in some way. 

Facing Moriarty was going to happen. I couldn't give him power over me. I decided to try some of that self-hypnosis claptrap Peter and Sherlock had both used on me. Breathe slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Imagine some place peaceful and safe. 

I tried to think of an oasis. Only one place where I felt safe. Like in all those corny country music songs, I only felt safe in the arms of the one I loved. The pond. The garden. Sherlock.

Molly returned and removed the catheter. I got the same feeling again from her. Maybe I would get out of here.

I rested my aching eyes and slept. Keep me safe, Sherlock.

\-----------------------------

Finally, time became separated again, and I could string thoughts together. It was the serum; they were building me up to take me down. I had nothing to think on but my situation so I decided to spin what-ifs through my mind. It seemed preferable to thinking about the hard bed or the cold room. I'd live a few moments in the past— think of what was, and what wasn't. Like Frankie, "regrets, I've had a few."    


If only I'd been brave enough to face what I was years ago. 

If only.

Maybe regretting the wasted time and the life I could have had with Sherlock wasn't constructive but self pity was preferable to thinking about Moriarty. 

I sighed. Now, it was possible I'd never get a chance to "travel each and every highway." Frankie and Sherlock. God, I remembered Sherlock's first kiss to "Strangers in the Night."    


I intentionally ignored all Sherlock's hints years ago. Soft smiles. Light touches. Running and hiding. Aching to win me, always approving and forgiving me for not loving him back. Like the night I soaked him in alcohol and got him arrested. I tripped over my amp cord and fell off stage on to his table. Glasses and bottles everywhere, drenching poor designated driver Sherlock in beer and whiskey. Of course, bad luck reigned; we got pulled over by the police that night—officers knew him already. Called him a “pansy” and me his “boy toy,” which made me uncomfortable, and Sherlock pissy. When they accused Sherlock of being drunk, he said "Someone spilled beer on me, you imbeciles," along with a barrage of other insults. They handcuffed him and took him to the station where he blew a 0.00 on the breathalyzer, but he spent the night in jail anyway. I left him there. The next morning, too embarrassed to show my face, I didn’t pick him up when he was released. I hated myself for it, but he didn’t hate me. I still don’t know why.

Then there was that night two years ago I went on a hot story with him in Chicago, covering a series of gang murders that weren’t really a gang murders. Down a back alley, we ended up hiding inside a dumpster. In the dark, surrounded by trash bags and pressed chest-to-chest, we came so close. Bittersweet to think how the hollow of his throat could have been covered with biting kisses if I’d taken a chance at that moment. I would have had so many more moments to relive in my head. If only. 

In the midst of my daydreams, I heard the door open and my heart pounded like it did every time, thinking Moriarty would walk through that door. Instead, Peter waltzed through alone. No Molly. No tag-a-long doctors. 

"I feel right at home here," he said, as he sat on the edge of my bed and patted my knee. 

"You're dressed like all my regulars!"

Couldn't he do better than a nudist camp joke? 

"Yeah," I frowned. "Not my choice of attire. I never liked togas much. Or this color either. Just not me." I kicked at the sheets. 

"John, I have a lot to apologize for,” he began. His feet tapped awkwardly on the floor as he scratched the back of his neck. "I couldn’t talk before, and I wasn’t sure how much you could read me. But you need to know, you haven’t been abandoned. Getting someone out of this place isn't an easy task, and you being undressed as you are does raise some complications. But not a big problem— we've got that covered. Ha, ha.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Sorry. I make bad jokes when I’m nervous. Just, the main stumbling block was the cameras. Sherlock knew he’d turn them off. It was just a matter of waiting. I’ve managed to distract him today.” He slapped his knees and looked at me. 

"Wait. What do you mean Sherlock knew?”

“Ready to leave this place?” he asked, ignoring me.

“You mean right now? Wait. You didn’t answer my question."

"No," he shook his head. "I didn’t, and no, not this second. We have a few other distractions to create yet."

I frowned. “We?”

"Molly. Me. Mycroft.” He swallowed. I knew already. 

“Don’t tell me Sherlock is here.”

“Alright. I won’t tell you that.”

“That lunatic! Fuck! Why?!”

“Simple. It was his idea from the start. He needed to get me inside here, to do that I had to play along with the Community and with Moriarty. I had to be convincing. I did a damn good acting job; I got you to hate me, didn’t I?! And honest to God, if I knew Sherlock was going to get shot, I would have stopped it somehow.”

“I don’t believe this. The idiot!”

“No, he’s not. He’s beside himself with worry right now.” He shrugged and thrust his hands in his pockets. “Sherlock knew you’d end up here. He needed a way to get you out. He came to me. Begged me pretty much. Sherlock made me promise to protect you and watch over you while here. There’s been plenty of close calls. I got Molly’s help. As for Eurus, I think she at least suspects if not knows, but kept quiet. As for Sherlock, for some reason he thinks you're the most important person on Earth, and since I think a lot of him and I want to see him happy, I said yes. Then there's Glenda, who happens to love you. I did this for her as well. And I didn't have anything going on in my life. The last hundred years have been really dull. Kind of slow at the old nudist camp." 

"And what happens to you after they realize you’ve betrayed them?"

"I hope they  _ don’t _ realize, but if they do, killing me isn’t an option. They’ve tried it before. I don't  care if they ostracize me. I’d like it. I don’t owe the Community my loyalty.”

I didn’t know what to say. Thank you wasn’t enough, but I said it anyway.

“Don't thank me yet,” he said. “Wait until you're out of here." 

“What do I need to do?”

"This isn't Hidden Hills. Walking out of here in your birthday suit isn't going to cut it, no matter how cute your ass is." He gave me one of his crooked grins. He started to stand. "I’ll get you some clothes. Think you’ll be able to get around?"

"Yeah, I can manage. They pumped me up with that serum earlier."

"We have to disable the video, and we’ll only have a small window of time before we raise  much suspicion.”

\-----------------------------

I couldn't sleep— not even if I’d downed four bottles of Nyquil or a handful of sleeping pills. I waited. And counted. Not sheep. I didn't count the specks on the ceiling either. I thought of counting all the men Mary fucked, but I was hoping that Peter wouldn't be that long (or on the list). Instead I counted kisses. It was an overly romantic time filler. Sherlock always accused me of being overly romantic.. 

I began by compartmentalizing kisses. Some had subtle differences. Mom's comfort kisses for skinned knees were awfully close to her so-sorry-your-girlfriend-dropped-you kisses. And how do you even define some of them? Shit, the way Sherlock sucks a tongue should be sold like Viagra. 

I stared at the white wall, counting Mrs. Hudson's peck on my cheek on graduation day as my knuckles turned white gripping my mortarboard. Catalogue that as gratitude mixed with congratulations. She kissed me, then Sherlock, and thanked us both. Really, though, it was all Sherlock who got her away from the lunatic husband.

As I spackled over the bumps in the wall with remembered kisses, I silently thanked her back for everything she’d done for us since. 

I counted all Sherlock’s—bruising and soft lips, kind and hard. What they said and did. They were like morning rain, heat lightning and far off thunder. Sometimes sudden, but most times gradual like a summer storm over Lake Michigan. And I counted on being able to steal countless more showers from his lips if only Peter would show up soon.

I was counting the kisses beside the pond when the door opened. Finally! 

Then Moriarty stepped in. So much for Deal distracting him. My hand twitched. Fucking nervous spasm.   


He braced a folding chair under the doorknob and turned to face me like he was on center stage. I closed my eyes and counted, but not kisses. I had to go to a safe place and stay calm. I imagined Sherlock’s Mind Palace and being safe inside his head. I imagined his hands massaging my temples, relaxing me. Panicking was not an option.  _ Hand, stop. _

I heard Moriarty's feet tapping like a fucking dancer near the bed. I refused to look at him. Tapping closer and closer.

"Open your eyes, Johnny Boy! It’s show time! Look at me! The best fuck you’ll ever have in your entire existence!" I felt the sheet begin to move. 

I opened my eyes and stared at him like a captain dressing down his troops. 

“We can't have this," he said, tugging the sheet off me. His eyes cut like glass. I looked at the door hopefully.

" _ No one is coming _ . They're all staying away because  _ they don't care _ . It's just you and me with loads of time, time, time to get acquainted!" He pulled the familiar syringe out of his pocket. "Want a little something to take the edge off?" 

"Sure," I answered. 

He laughed in surprise, then plunged the needle into my IV anyway. The instant euphoria turned to panic with the rub of his thumb across my wrist. All his hate and insanity spilled inside me. At least my hand quit shaking.

In an instant he jumped on top on me, his knee slamming into my chest and knocking the wind out of me. His ankle rubbing against my cock.

Fucking roses. I was hard. Not good. 

One of his hands clutched my throat. Not tight enough to cut off my wind, but enough to make me dizzy. At least I couldn't vomit if he was strangling me. 

Talk. Quick, while I still could. He released his grip a bit.

"What's the matter?" I rasped. "Can't get it up? A chronic problem for you, isn't it?  Hey, Sherlock knows this herbalist... " his hand crushed my throat, and he dug his knee into in my sternum.

"I don't have a problem," he hissed. “I’m just not interested.  _ Yet _ .” My lungs began to burn, then he let go again.

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about,” I choked out, “happens to a lot of people. I heard eating too much red meat causes impotence. How much do you eat? Maybe you should cut down. Or maybe take a little ginseng."

He let go of my neck and clamped his hand over my mouth and nose instead. 

Just before I thought I was going to black out, he unpinched my nose, then reached down and started unfastening his jeans with that hand. This wasn't going well.

_ Fuck _ . 

He shoved his knee between my legs, but there was no way he could get them far enough apart while I was strapped to the bed. He took his hand off my mouth so he could unstrap my legs. 

"That’s it. I thought it was pretty pathetic that you can only get your rocks off messing with me when I can't fight back. What sport is there in that?" 

His eyes narrowed, then the corner of his mouth raised. He moved down my body. His hands went for the straps across my waist, then back up to my chest, his body slithering over me. It took everything I had to block out the screaming inside my head.

"I wanted to flip you over anyway," he whispered into my ear. 

I kept silent. I didn't want to do anything that would make him change his mind about freeing my wrists. 

Right hand free. Then the left.    


I reached up to grab him, but his upper body spun me over without much of a fight on my part. I’d underestimated how weak I’d gotten. He slammed himself on top of my back, wrestling with my wrists and squeezing his hand over my mouth, pressing my face hard into the mattress.

He told me once that life for him was flat without pain. Maybe it was time to make his world round again.

I sunk my teeth into his hand. I gagged on his blood. The serum helped me push up and back 

He struggled to get hold of my hands and wedge them above my head. I squirmed, twisted, kicked and bit, and finally got one hand free. I pushed against his face, my thumb finding his left eye, and I dug in. A white-hot current shot from my hand to my brain: the pain his body was experiencing but that he was unable to feel. I willed myself to push the pain back into him. He screamed and let go of my other hand. I gouged my other thumb into his right eye. I felt grisly agony, but then a hollow void behind it which  I flooded with every raw nerve ending in my body.  _ Take that, you sick fuck.  _

He had screamed before, but now he shrieked. Blood and gore ran down his face. The man who'd forgotten pain remembered.

His hands clawed at his eyes, smearing what was left of his eyes into his hair. I shoved him back with a crash off the side of the bed into the side table. I rolled off the bed, legs shaking. I stepped over him as he clawed at his eyes. I ran for the door. 

As I kicked the chair aside, my toe cracked. I knew I had broken it, but I felt no pain. Had I transferred his inability to feel pain to me? As I frantically worked to remove the chair wedged against it, I felt it throb. I was never so relieved to feel pain in my life.

My gory fingers slipped on the knob. He still swore and shrieked and raved, making no sense. He pulled himself up to stand, smearing the sheets with blood. He stumbled toward me. 

I couldn't get the fucking door open. My hands kept slipping.  _ Open. open. open.  _

He lunged toward me but misjudged and I tripped him. He fell face first on the floor, crying out like a baby and crawling toward me.

I worked the door knob again, this time it turned, and I was out, dragging the chair through the doorway with me. I slammed the door shut, and he hammered against the other side. I took a quick look behind me, but no one was coming down the hall. He was right— we hadn't attracted attention.  No one cared about my cries— too bad they weren't mine!

I wedged the door knob through the chair's slats tight, then turned the folding chair lengthwise so that the chair’s legs kept him from pulling the door open. Moriarty yanked, and the slats slid enough to let his hand grope through, but the door wouldn't open. He shook the chair, trying to work it around and loose.

"When I get a hold of you, I’ll destroy you!" he hissed. I turned and sprinted down the hall naked.

The place was a maze, I gone down three hallways with no one in sight. Suddenly, I heard voices down the hallway to the left. I needed to duck into a room. Preferably one with no one in it. A bit cliche to hide in the closet, but it looked like my best bet. Yeah, but which fucking door? I tried every door. All locked. 

People were running. I ducked down another hall with a fire escape at the end. But it was locked tight. A dead end. Only ten doors. I began trying them frantically and was on the last when Moriarty hollered, "Watson's escaped!"

That’s when the door next to me opened and a hand reached out and pulled me inside. I knew those hands. As we scrambled together in the dark, I heard him lock the door. 

“Sherlock,” I whispered. The musty linen closet smelled like salvation. Feet pounded past the door and muffled voices filled the hall. I took three deep breaths then I felt around in the dark. Sherlock pulled me back against his chest, and we stepped against shelves filled with sheets and towels. My hand found a light switch. Sherlock’s hand grasped mine as he stopped me from turning it on. “John,” he whispered. My back scraped flat against the rough stucco wall. Nowhere to hide. All we could do was stand and hope no one opened that door.

I could see now why Sherlock hated the dark. I was surprised he didn’t have me turn on the switch, but he was more afraid someone would see the light go on from under the door than of the dark. Sherlock was shaking. Fuck. Where was Deal?

I listened. I heard Molly yelling, "Take him to the infirmary." 

"He's somewhere close," said Moriarty. "Find him!" 

Then I heard someone else yelling, "You check this hall, and we'll go down the others." 

Keys jiggled and doors banged open and shut. They were searching the rooms in  _ this  _ hall way. They were opening every door. Shit, nowhere to hide and nowhere to go.

“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock whispered. I balled my fists. Despite his words, I knew we were trapped, but at least we’d put up a fight. I heard a key clang at the closet door. The tumbler clicked, and the door slowly opened. 

I held my breath. We were staring into Molly's brown eyes. I unclenched my fists and blinked. She flipped the light switch and said, "No one in here." She gave us a wink, then a curt look as she snapped the light back off, stepped slowly back and shut the door in our faces. 

“Told you,” Sherlock whispered back.

She turned the key behind her. I stood listening as she unlocked the next door, then the next. And when all was quiet, Sherlock pulled one of the blankets off the shelf next to me and wrapped the scratchy wool snug around me. I sighed as my back scraped down the wall, and we both sat down, heavy on the floor. Putting my head on my knees, I cried huge tears of relief as Sherlock hugged me.


	19. Before I Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my incredible beta, MrBotanyB, for the excellent revise. A special thanks on her suggests for the opening. So glad she pointed out the unintentional R Kelly allusion I had. No "trapped in a closet" first lines in this chapter!

Hardly home free, but I was relieved to be with Sherlock, so relieved that I fell asleep. It wasn’t the first time the serum knocked me out. Trapped in my unconscious, I kept remembering Moriarty crushing me. Eyeless, weeping gore, he still saw me. In the dark closet, he still saw me. As blind and all-seeing like one of the Graeae, oozing evil that seeped under my nails and into my skin. Face sliding off like melting wax, he decomposed. I turned my head. The rotting flesh on his fingers left a trail. 

I screamed.

"Hey! Hey, wake up."

I jumped as Sherlock slapped his hand over my mouth. Peter jostled my shoulders while Sherlock held me against his chest. 

"We'll be lucky if no one heard you," Deal whispered as he switched on the light. My eyes darted around trying to see the stranger holding me. Sherlock, in one of his many disguises. He looked like an old history professor: forty years older and fifty pounds heavier, but he smelled like my Sherlock, coffee and cinnamon and Menthol cigarettes. He’d been smoking. Not good. I looked around, wondering if Moriarty was with us in the closet somewhere. Fuck, my dream was so real. 

"You have to put these clothes on fast. We don't have much time," Deal insisted, grasping my elbow, which Sherlock slapped away. "Come on, get him up."

I fell back as I tried to stand. "John?" Sherlock asked.

“Is he okay?” Deal asked.

"Of course he’s not okay,” Sherlock hissed. I grabbed the clothes he'd thrown at me and began struggling to shove my legs into the stinky janitor coveralls. "You could have at least found something clean.” 

"They'd notice him then. No one will look twice at a janitor." 

Stiff from unknown filth, I pulled the coveralls over my hips. 

"Is this some new shade of green?" I asked. Covered in some kind of slop— _ ew-w-w, gross _ . I finished buttoning the front as Sherlock handed me an equally grimy hat. I think it once matched the overalls, but now it was brown and khaki camouflage. I guess after all I'd been through I shouldn't be too concerned about head lice, but I shuddered nonetheless.

"I turned surveillance off in the lobby and stairwells," Deal said. "You need to get going. I'll ride down in the elevator with you and get off at the lobby with Sherlock. John, you’ll need to go to the basement and out the service entrance; it will be less conspicuous. As you get off the elevator, walk straight down the hall. Turn to the first hallway on the left. You'll see the doors to the service entrance. An old blue truck is out there near the ramp. Get in and wait for us. This is my usual time to check out. I'll meet you out there.”

“And from there?”

“Mycroft’s arranged for a private jet to get us out of here, but we’ll need to stay at a safe house tonight." 

Surprised that Sherlock didn’t insist he come with me, it struck me why Sherlock wasn’t arguing with Deal. 

“What are you up to, Sherlock?” 

“It’s best to check out where I came in.”

“Sherlock!” 

“And there’s something else I need to do.”

“And that would be…”

“There is information Mycroft wishes me to procure.”

Highly unlikely he’d be doing it just for Mycroft, but I didn’t have the energy to argue with the dickhead. 

Deal reached in his pocket. "Here, put these on," he said, handing me a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses with the right earpiece duct-taped.

"Do I look like Buddy Holly?" I whispered.

"Maybe if he was a custodian who never bathed," Sherlock said, holding his nose.

"I can't help it— you gave me these righteous threads, and I've been in a bed for weeks with only sponge baths." 

Peter grabbed the knob. 

"Hmm, sponge baths with Molly,” Deal said. “What a hardship!" Sherlock looked a tad upset.

"She's not my type," I said, smelling my armpit. "Why'd you turn off the cameras to the stairwell if we're going out the elevators?" I asked.

"A decoy. They'll think you're going that way."

"Seems like they'd suspect you."

"Believe me, they won't. And for a good reason.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock stated and looked with suspicion at Deal. “What did you do?”

“”I'll tell you after we're out of here." He opened the door. We followed him out, both of us casually walking down the hall. Deal took a parting glance. "How'd you get in that closet anyway? I never unlocked it."

"I’m good at breaking into places where I’m not supposed to be," Sherlock said. It was too much like flirting for my taste. We turned left down the hallway. No one in sight. 

Peter stopped in front of the elevator. 

_ Going down. _

The bell rang, and the door opened. We had company.

The guy didn't look familiar. Dressed in street clothes. I decided he was probably no one important. Deal stepped in before us. Street Clothes nodded at Peter. Deal leaned in to push the elevator button and hesitated; our visitor had already pressed the lobby button. Peter stepped to the back next to him, with Sherlock on the other side of Deal. I punched the basement button and stepped in the corner on the other side of the elevator.

The fellow standing next to Peter wrinkled his nose at me. These clothes sure did stink. I was kinda glad I didn't know what from.

"Caught him yet?" The man asked Peter in a thick Hispanic accent. 

I looked at him from beneath my hat brim. The man was balding, about my height and stocky. He scratched the shiny spot on the back of his head.    


"Not that I've heard. Just came from Watson's room,"  Peter said, ignoring me; I was a janitor after all, a non-person.

"We told them we'd have trouble if we brought him here. No one ever listens to psychiatrists. I heard he got free from the restraints with his mind after he blinded Moriarty."

Ahh, so this was a peer of Deal's, a fellow psychiatrist. And judging from the way he was shifting his weight around, he was worried about me being on the loose. 

"You hear all sorts of crazy rumors," Peter answered.

"So, you don't believe Watson’s got powers?"

From the corner of my eye, I saw Peter smile at Sherlock. 

"I didn't say that," he stepped ahead to the center of the elevator, then glanced at me. "Our floor." 

My stomach lurched as the elevator stopped, and they both got out. I kept my head down as the doors closed. 

I looked up. Very unsettling hearing people talk about me and my  _ powers _ . Next stop basement. As the doors opened, I looked out cautiously. Dark with the haze of fluorescent lights. Musty basement smell. No movement. All clear. I stepped into the corridor, acting like I belonged. A housekeeping cart with a mop and wash bucket blocked the aisle, and as I elbowed around it, a man yelled: "Entrar aquí y limpiar este lío!”

I think he was ordering me to mop something up. 

“No hablar español,” I replied, then tried to ignore him and walked away. A man—presumably the same one who had shouted— stuck his head out of the door in front of me, shaking his Glaciar water bottle at me like some teacher pointing at pen at student for writing on a desk.

"You lazy fuck, get in here with that bucket. We've been paging hazardous wastes forever." 

Fuck, what was I supposed to do now? I rolled the cart ahead of me through the door, trying to look as if I knew what I was doing. I heard the security lock buzz as the door shut behind me. 

I looked at the floor. Just a couple of test tubes. Not like I hadn't mopped before, but hazardous waste? I'd better clean it up fast and get out of here.

The Glaciar man had issues. Besides needing to visit a dentist, he had an anger management problem. His face was red, and he was chewing the inside of his mouth. 

"Estúpido portero. Es lazy as hell. Look at that trash over there." He thrust the water bottle by my face, just missing my nose. The trash can was pretty full. He uncapped the bottle and gulped down the rest of the water. He took it from his lips and grimaced. "Eh! What the fuck you lookin' at?" I jumped back as he kicked at me, just missing my shin. 

"Estúpido idiota. Over here," and he swung his shoe toward the mess on the floor. "Clean it up!" He slammed the empty water bottle down on the shelf next to him. The shelf rattled. If he didn't stop, I'd have more to clean up.

The asshole eyed me with contempt for a few more seconds, then turned and stomped off. I  _ could _ walk away, but I he'd hear me go out the door—probably swagger after me if I didn't clean this up and maybe kick me again. Didn't need to call anymore attention to myself. Someone might recognize me.

Just my luck.

I snapped on some rubber gloves from the cart and carefully picked up the broken glass. Fuck, at this rate Peter and Sherlock would beat me to the truck. If I didn't show soon, Sherlock would risk coming to find me. I hurried. I was dropping the bits of glass in the cart's waste receptacle when I noticed the label. Neatly written on one shard of test tube was the name Watson.

It was the serum! My serum, made out of my blood. Now,  _ that _ was the hazardous waste.

I scrutinized my surroundings. On the shelf in front me was a rack of vials, all labeled with my name. Shit, I couldn't believe I almost missed it.

I mopped up the rest, then looked around to see if the asshole was near by. Nope.

I'd never stolen anything in my life—not even candy from of store as a kid. 

I took the empty Glaciar bottle off the shelf and unscrewed the top. Then I emptied five of the vials into the water bottle and screwed the cap back on. I hastily shoved it in my side pocket. 

I started to put the empty vials back, but then I had a thought. Maybe if I dunked the test tubes in the mop water…

Who would get this serum? Moriarty, most likely. I admit I felt a sort of sick satisfaction as I dipped each test tube in the cloudy water and snapped the stops back on. Yeah, this wouldn't make up for what he did to me or Sherlock, but it would come close. As I put them back on the shelf, it was pretty apparent they weren't the same. The serum was clear, and the water was cloudy. 

Why not try some telekinesis? I ran my right hand across the vials. 

_ Presto-chango _ . I really didn’t know if it worked. It did look different.

I didn't think I really changed them. But now I wondered. This telekinetic power kind of freaked me. Or was it even telekinesis? I thought back to what Eurus said about this having to do with me not actually moving the object but altering time, and I wondered how that worked. It didn't seem logical.

I pushed the mop ahead of me, and opened the door. I looked back to see if the asshole noticed me leaving. Nowhere in sight. 

But on the shelves, the vials I'd filled looked clear. 

It worked. Fucking amazing. Next I should try water into wine. I  _ was _ thirsty…

The heard the door click behind me, and it was done. I began to get doubts about what I did. After all, who knows what was in that mop bucket? Injected into Moriarty, I didn't care. But what if it wasn't.  Maybe I assumed too much. 

I pushed the cart down the hall, then abandoned it around the corner. I rushed down the corridor searching for the service entrance sign. I found the door. I hoped no alarms sounded when I opened it. I held my breath and pushed.    


No alarm.

I was never so happy to see sunlight in my life. I jogged across the dock and down the ramp like a colt after a spring rain. I spotted the blue Ford as I reached the end of the ramp. Peter sat inside with Sherlock. 

"What happened? What took you so long?" Sherlock asked, as Peter turned over the ignition and slipped the truck into reverse. 

"I was detained," I said, pulling the water bottle out of my pocket and setting it between my legs. 

"What? You were thirsty?" Deal stepped on the clutch and put it in drive.

"Not exactly," I said, clutching the bottle. "This is the serum."

He stepped on the gas. 

"The serum,” Sherlock said, raising his eyebrow. “You have the serum.”

“It’s not like you to repeat yourself. Why? Of course! That’s what Mycroft had you go off and look for.”

“You are amazing, John Watson,” Deal said, as the truck lurched into second gear. "You stumbled into a lab and found it!"

We pulled up to the guard station, slowed and were waved through. 

"You could say it  _ fell _ into my possession."

Sherlock cracked a wicked grin. 

They both looked at me with a bit more admiration than I thought I deserved, but I didn't tell them any different. I decided to let them think that retrieving the serum was a Herculean effort. The real point was why I did it.

I swallowed and squinted my eyes against sunlight that I wasn't looking anywhere near.  Sherlock took one look at my face and read me.

"I fucking thought so,” Peter said. “You're making a mistake."

Leave it to a psychiatrist to read me as well.

"It’s for me to decide,” I said. Which was completely true since I was tricked into this whole mess.

"Christ, think about it,” Deal said. “Both of you. John, you know he can't say no to taking that serum. He's bound to you. And even if he wasn't, Sherlock would still do it to be with you. It's a mistake. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn't."

“You’re not speaking to John about this. I’ve already made up my mind.”

“For a fucking genius, you’re one impulsive son-of-a-bitch. You don’t think. You react. And John, you have to know that this isn’t a good idea.”

For a psychiatrist, he sure was projecting. I rested my head back in the seat. 

"Why not?" I asked.

"I think there’s a bigger elephant in the room than that,” Deal said.

“We’re in a truck, an ancient truck held together with tape and chicken wire,” Sherlock said. His brow furrowed, lips pouted, then he scrutinized me like an arrest log on his crime beat.

I’d forgotten about Eurus until that moment.

“Now isn’t the time,” I said through my teeth. “And maybe you don’t want Sherlock to take the serum because you still want him yourself."

I didn't really believe that, but I needed to put him off talking about Eurus. I did know he still cared for Sherlock. I took a chance that pointing a finger at him would get him to drop all of it. It worked. He was quiet. Unfortunately, Sherlock wasn’t.

"He still cares, but that's not it." He glanced over at me for an instant, eyes like flames. “What are you keeping from me, John.”

“Not now, Sherlock.”

"You won't be able to feel pain ever again,” Deal said, thankfully interrupting and turning to Sherlock. 

“Pain is a distraction I can do without.”

“You say that, but you don't know what that's like. It can drive a person crazy. At first, you love the feeling, the euphoria you get. But years go by and the highs leave. With no pain, you have nothing to gauge pleasure with. Life becomes flat. You look for new highs. You want to feel something, anything. You already have addictive tendencies. I don’t want to see you turn into someone like Moriarty.”

“Stop right there!” I said. “No matter what Sherlock experiences, he will  _ never  _ be like Moriarty.” 

“Look at me!” Deal said, flinging his arms in the air. “There's a part of me that understands Moriarty completely! I’ve been half insane from this!  I hate the part of me that wants and wants and wants. After a time, there's little you see which is bright and shiny. The world becomes this grey, bleak glass you look through. I only get little glimpses of light."

At least he wasn’t talking about Eurus, but no. Sherlock would never be like them. Looking over at him, I feared that he believed he could become a monster too.

"If you take the serum, you will end up like me or worse,” he said to Sherlock. “You will know John is the only reason you’re doing this.”

“I would never blame John.”

Maybe I didn't want to hear this. Sherlock became a blank slate. He was in defensive mode.

“Yes, You will. You will end up blaming him for your misery. I know you think in that big brain of yours that you can reason it away, but blame doesn’t work that way. It’s like love. You don’t have a choice.”

“That’s idiotic! I have a choice. I’ve made it already. I choose John.”

“Choose John! But you don’t have to choose taking the serum."

“It is John’s gift to me. I will take it.”

I was beginning to think Deal had a point. Not about Sherlock changing, but about Sherlock’s reasons for taking the serum. It should be for him, not for me.

“It’s not a gift, it’s a curse.”

“There will never be anyone but you for me, John. I cared for Peter, but I know now that it wasn’t love. No gift, no curse, no will alter what I feel for you.”

“You will hate him in the end.”

"Like you hate Glenda?" I asked. “No, I don’t think so.”

"Yes, like I hate Glenda! You can hate and love someone."

"She says you betrayed her, not the other way around. She says you tricked her into making you immortal."

"Yes, it's true. But I held it against her since she had it to give. That's part of a long story."

"Don't see anything that's stopping you from telling us."

"We’re almost to the safe house.You two need to talk privately. About a lot of things.”

“The elephant,” Sherlock said.

Deal nodded. “Besides," he said, watching me slump into the seat, "it's stifling in here. John looks like shit and smells worse. We’ll be there in a few minutes. Rest, and shower, then you’re leaving on a jet plane for home.”

Home. Sounded perfect. No arguing that. 

\--------------------------------

I smelled coffee and rolled over. The mattress sunk down in the middle; the pillow smelled like cigarettes. Sherlock spooned me with one leg flung over mine. I vaguely remembered the shower and Sherlock toweling me before leading me into bed. 

The sun filtered through the windows, and I felt a hand brush my cheek. Not the long, slender fingers I loved. It was Peter, waking us. I sat up, smacking my forehead into Sherlock's nose.

Peter laughed and I apologized. Sherlock just held his nose and said he was fine. 

We got up. Peter followed. 

I took a seat next to Peter at the small retro white formica table. I didn't understand why he was so close. He handed me a cup of coffee. I sipped it. Hot. Very hot. Burned my mouth. He gulped it down like it was iced tea.

"What was that a minute ago?" I asked. I brushed my cheek where he'd touched it. He was sad when he touched me. 

"You were having a bad dream."

"Don’t remember." Probably better I didn't recall. 

"You were talking in your sleep earlier too," he said to Sherlock. “Nothing changes.”

I took a tentative sip of the coffee. I didn’t like it when he made comments about their past. I knew I shouldn’t let it get to me, but it did. The coffee was good, at least. 

"Hmm," Sherlock said.

"You were asking John to forgive you."

Great. Deal rocked back the old chrome kitchen chair and assessed us like we were in his office. I half expected him to ask me “What brings you here today?” Dickhead. Instead, he shook his head at me and laughed.

"I see now why Sherlock loves you."

“What?” I said, choking on my coffee.

“You’re adorable when you’re pissed off. You’re like an angry bulldog.”

Sometimes the best thing to do is to not say anything at all and let the heat and smoke and lava expand until it erupts. I took another sip of coffee and glared hot coals at him over my chipped mug. 

Silence. He cleared his throat. I tucked in my chin and swallowed. Volcano contained.

"I knew Sherlock wanted you even then. But he didn't think he could have you,” Deal said. Sherlock covered his face with those big, beautiful hands of his. 

“Peter, that’s enough,” he said looking at me through his fingers. It was adorable.

“No, this needs to be said, and these will be my final words on the matter. I wanted you then,” Peter said, turning to Sherlock. “I still do. Being older doesn't necessarily make me wiser. I'm still attracted to beauty. That was  _ part _ of why I wanted you. You’re charismatic, brilliant, beautiful.” Peter turned back to me, a sad smile on his face. “But he wanted you, John. I thought for a while it was just infatuation. I thought he wanted what he couldn't have."

This was clearly still embarrassing Sherlock. His face was flushed. "You don't need to explain this to me," I said.

"No, I need to. What I did years ago to Glenda changed me. I was torn between pleasing my father, and what was right. I chose my father. With that decision, I lost myself and my name.  If I would have chosen her, life for me would have been different. Would she have asked me to become immortal on her own? I don't know. So, with Sherlock it was a no-brainer. I let him go."

"We clearly do not need to rehash this,” Sherlock said.

"Final words! Give them to me! You're deceiving yourself. It will change you both." 

“I think that’s rather the point,” Sherlock said. “Change is inevitable. We know each other better than ourselves, yet we continue to surprise each other, to grow, which is essential in all healthy relationships.”

“Sherlock is right. We will learn together as equals, not live with this constant ache of Sherlock being bound to me.” 

“Being immortal destroyed my life. I’m not happy. I’m not sad. An ache is better than nothing at all. Sherlock, if you become what I am, you’re not going to feel anything at all.”

“That is utter bullshit!” Sherlock swore, slamming his cup on the table. “You still feel! You have an emotional crisis daily! You throw tantrums like a twelve-year-old child! You’re doing it right now!”

“Sounds like you’re describing yourself,” Peter laughed. “You don’t get it! It’s not the same. When people stop feeling pain, they’d do anything to feel again.  _ Anything _ .”

“I get it well enough,” Sherlock said. “You are under the misconception that feeling no pain turns one into a bad person. You are not Moriarty. You never will be. You just proved the contrary: you will not—did not—do  _ anything _ to feel again.” 

“I will! I want it! Of course I want it! Just because I can still love and hate and feel anger doesn’t mean I’m not missing what’s essential. Do you think I really wouldn’t try anything to feel again?"

It happened so fast. Peter leaned in grabbed the back of my head and kissed me hard, opening his mouth. I found myself helplessly returning his kiss. My fingers tingled and toes curled. Pressing my mouth into his, his tongue moving against mine. I bolted back, chest heaving, shocked at my reaction. Sherlock stared. 

“That was what Moriarty wanted but would never get from you,” Peter explained. “I knew he’d never get in, but I did. Got in before you got out.”

I blinked. Twice. Goldfished a bit.  Puzzled at how he could think riddles and prepositions were fair trade for a forced kiss. 

“Don’t be alarmed,” Sherlock said to me, although his voice wobbled like he was about to cry. “It was an experiment.” I wiped my mouth off with the back of my hand just before Sherlock’s fist landed a right hook into Peter’s nose.

“Fuck! Thank you!” Peter said, between giggles as he pinched his nostrils to stop blood pouring down his chin. “That hurt!”


	20. Less Than Zero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Safe for now and hot smex happens with our pair is tucked away safe from the evil that's Moriarty. But it can't last. Not with the Community searching.
> 
> Thank you, MrBotanyB for the awesome Beta!

“That’s good news for you, Sherlock, but you didn’t have to hit me so hard!”

“And you didn’t have to stick your tongue so far down John’s throat!”

"Worth it, though,” Peter chuckled, turning to me. “You don't give yourself enough credit. Made me want to look deep into those pretty blue eyes as you come."

Sherlock almost hit him again. I plopped down on the chair next to the door, staring at the floor. I didn't need this.

“Experiment?” I repeated. I guess getting injected with serum twice in one day fucked with my libido. That was the excuse I was going with anyway. That, and utter shock. When Peter started kissing me, I felt like I’d been hit with a cattle prod. When I’d pulled away from him, I was stunned. Not just from Sherlock’s words and neat right hook, but from what I saw  _ inside  _ Deal. I'd have thought that by now nothing about him  _ should _ be unexpected to me. “You could have told me instead of all the subterfuge.”

“If we told you,” Peter said, “then it wouldn’t have worked since you wouldn’t have let me in.”

“Blame Mycroft. This was his theory,” Sherlock said. “He insisted the hypothesis needed to be proven. I only agreed to it on the stipulation that I must be present.”

“Oh my God, Sherlock. You know how ‘not good’ that sounds, don’t you?” I stood back up. I needed coffee. Or a shot of whiskey. Maybe a double.

“I postulated that you would have this reaction afterward, but Mycroft insisted. He did not want me to take the serum unless he was correct. I  _ will  _ be able to feel pain.”

“That wasn’t all,” Peter said, bouncing in the chair and flinging his arms around like a mad scientist. “It’s a two way street. I saw what you felt!”

“Then you know how bad I want to hit you too,” I said.

“Don’t hate me for doing this,” he pouted. “It was for a good cause.”

So, Sherlock and I would be equals. I rather doubted it was Mycroft’s theory. More like Eurus’. Which led to more family secrets. This kissing experiment had nothing to do with my loving Sherlock, but I resented not being told another plan. It was about intimacy and its invasion; trust and its betrayal. 

I'd always believed Sherlock saw into me. Stupid of me to never come right out and ask. Well, now I knew. Amazing what I learned in one short French kiss.

“Sorry, John, about the espionage  _ à la _ tonsil hockey,” Deal said with a laugh. Was everything a fucking joke to him?

Well, I learned something from the kiss about Deal too. I knew his motive. He got what he wanted. Have fun with all that pain. And as for Sherlock, Deal didn't want him. Although Deal certainly didn't hold any affection for me. Maybe a touch of lust for us both. But he could get sex elsewhere. 

From the way I read Deal, physical sensory experiences intertwined with extrasensory experiences in my brain's wiring. I already surmised that one on my own. He just confirmed my suspicions; I was hard wired for psychic sexual healing. 

I already knew Sherlock turned me on, now I knew he tuned me in. 

My lips burned where Peter's mouth had touched mine. Kind of an internal-combustive penalty for betraying Sherlock. What was I? Easy? Fucking might have well kissed on a vibrating insert-a-quarter bed in a seedy motel. For a millisecond I had actually contemplated having Sherlock join us. Then I was slammed with a thought— no, a premonition. 

I touched my mouth and stared at him. 

"You're wrong," I said. “I don’t think it lasts.”

“Maybe I need to kiss you again, or have sex,”  Deal winked. 

“Not happening,” Sherlock blurted out. 

Nope. Not even a peck on the lips. I was wrong to let him in even once. I wouldn't let him look inside my head again. I got up from the table and stepped around in back of Sherlock’s chair. Peter crawling inside my head made me more than nervous: vulnerable. And naked. Maybe Peter was comfortable with all his nudist clients, but I sure as hell preferred clothes. This bordered on professional misconduct. Wasn't he breaking some Hippocratic oath? 

I thought back to Peter when he'd hypnotized me, and how he'd hoped I'd remember more than the conversations in the hospital with Sherlock and Lestrade. Of course Deal intentionally led me down the faux past-life path to see if he was right about what I was. And Sherlock helped him because by that time they’d already made a plan, with Mycroft whispering in their ears.

How could I have been so stupid? Deal knew who I was better than anyone else because he knew Sherlock. Shit, Sherlock  _ confided  _ in him.  _ Peter Deal, the trusted family friend. _ I let him hypnotize me because Sherlock convinced me. Peter wasn’t selfless. Sherlock knew it. Although Sherlock believed he was helping me, he knew that he was helping Peter help himself to me.

For distraction, my fingers threaded through Sherlock’s curls. A rumble of contentment unfurled from his perfect lips. How did he manage to look this hot just rolling out of bed? His cat-like eyes flashed up at me and his lips parted. His heat told me that the talk of sex affected him as well, and his upturned grin told that he had the same opinion of Deal’s patient/doctor ethics. 

I should be raging with anger at them both for this. But I couldn’t. That’s what happens when you find out that you’re  _ The One.  _ At least Peter had kept his promise to wait until Sherlock was there at the table too. I didn’t much like the idea of passing one serving of John Watson to the right, but at least I was Sherlock’s favorite dish.

Judging by the way Sherlock's hand rubbed my thigh, he understood I’d already forgiven him. A bit of anger would have eased my guilt over telling Sherlock about his long-lost sister. Maybe a bit of friendly necking would ease the pain.

Deal wasn’t getting anything else from me. Personal research and physical release were not included. From the jolts sparking from Sherlock’s fingers to my brain, I was on my way to overload. 

“I’d tell you both to get a room, but you already have one,” Peter said. “I need to get back to the hospital. My shift starts in less than an hour.”

Sherlock stood up, and I pulled him to the bedroom. I wasn’t sure how good of an idea it was, but destruction by genius reporter felt like a wonderful way to go. He kicked the door shut behind him, and I waited for impact. He slammed me into the bed. For the first time I truly understood.

When I listen to Led Zeppelin with Mary, I hear every sound, every note, chord, melody and harmony. I hear the final "Stairway to Heaven" a cappella, and it’s the music of the spheres. When Mary hears it, it’s a nice tune.

That's what it'd been like for me up to this point. I was Mary. I didn't understand what I heard or felt. What was happening in my own body was a mystery. Suddenly, rhythm and pitch had become my heart and blood. I understood. And of course Sherlock understood long before I did.

With Sherlock, we would listen to the music of the spheres together. Sherlock. My metronome, my conductor. He knew me more than me.

“As much as I want you to fuck me,” Sherlock said, between nips on my neck, “there a few facts you need to know, and Mycroft was clear that Peter shouldn’t know certain...details.”

“Now? You’re killing me, now?” 

“ _ Une petite pause avant la petite mort, mon coeur. _ ” He mouth curved in a lovely smile that reserved only for me. “Alas, it’s important. I abhor bringing up Mycroft when we’re, um, being intimate, but it’s imperative. Moriarty is set on altering his past and believes you are the window through which he will achieve this. Mycroft insisted it would never work and convinced the members of the Community of the same. But not Moriarty. He insisted that the serum coupled with...intercourse would work.” Sherlock crumbled before me. “John, you didn’t say, but that nightmare... you were talking…”

“Nothing happened. He tried, but...I blinded him. Even if ‘it’ happened, it wouldn’t work.”

"You think you have to be a willing participant, with an open mind. That's why you think the change in Peter won't last?"

“I’m pretty sure that’s how it works. It has to be consensual. And, well, sensual. Back and forth. In and out,” I joked.

He crawled across the bed and laid down beside me. 

“Moriarty wants chaos,” he said, reaching for my hand. 

Sherlock sure knew how to squelch a mood.

“The Community wants to find out what you are and if you’re a danger,” he said. “What ‘powers’ you hold. As always, Mycroft wants to be in control. He believes your ability to alter time is limited to few seconds within a defined interval separating two points.”

“A few seconds. I don’t see how a few seconds change much.” 

“John, a few seconds could change the world. And with the serum in that bottle and your cock inside me, you could change me forever,” he said. Then he burst out laughing. “That was patently awful.”

“Yeah, it was," I said, laughing with him. "But it’s the truth. And I need to hear you say it.” 

“I do want be with you.” His touch sparked a need inside. “Forever really isn’t going to be forever. Nothing is. But we’ll have more time.”

“Yeah, about that. What Peter said. I want this too, but not at the cost of your soul.”

“Peter is wrong. It will not alter us.”

“What if it changes more than us? What if it’s not a few seconds? What if it’s like a parallel universe Doctor Who thing? Or Donnie Darko. Or…”

“You’re speaking nonsense.”

“I want to change time so I can have my parents and Harry alive again. Get to know my birth parents and get answers. But messing with time doesn’t seem like a good idea. I’ve read Ray Bradbury. I've seen The Butterfly Effect. What if I erased essential parts of my life? I’d never want to chance erasing you.”

He kissed my head. “ _ John _ .” 

“I need to tell you something I learned,” I said. “What if we’ve changed time already and didn’t realize it?”

“Unlikely.”

“How would we know?” 

He blinked at me, and I wanted to shake him and say,  _ Think.You’re the genius!  _ Instead, I barrelled ahead and blurted out,“You have a sister.”

I'd love to go back to the time when my worst worry was what color carnations to put in the next floral arrangement. 

Sherlock laughed. 

“I’m not joking. Sherlock, you have a sister. She came to see me when they were taking my blood. Her name is Eurus. When Peter comes back later, he’ll tell you the same.”

“That’s patently ridiculous. Sometimes you can be so tediously gullible; they were messing with your head.”

“Believe me. She  _ is  _ your sister. She said your family kept her from you. Peter believes it.”

He scoffed. “If I had a sister I would know.”

“Sherlock.  _ I touched her. _ I know! You. Have. A sister. Mycroft and your family kept it from you. Either we have altered time, or you erased her from your mind palace.”

“Impossible! I would never erase a blood relative! And how could _ I  _ simply not know?”

“Because you simply didn’t want to know?”

To me, the possibility that Sherlock wouldn’t notice this wasn’t that surprising. It was the Holmes household, after all. A family of intellectual giants teamed together to keep the truth from the baby in the family. Yes, I could see it happening.

He sighed, then steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. “What is she like?”

“A genius. And mad. Not mad like you. Mad, mad.”

“So an insane genius. A dark family secret that my parents and big brother took great pains to hide. Why? Did she try to harm me in some way?”

“That’s a question for your parents and Mycroft, but I assumed something like that. Parents as loving as yours wouldn’t hand over their child to the Community without good reason.

"The Community! I always wondered about their judgement. Enough about my family. We need to get undressed," Sherlock said seriously, his voice falling an octave lower. He grabbed the sheets and flung them open in invitation. 

Sherlock crawling up my legs and rubbing against me prompted me to role-play dirty janitor and the saucy cleaning woman with Sherlock. The feather duster on the dresser had real possibilities if only I didn’t have this raging headache coming on. 

Everybody wanted something from me. Even Sherlock. But at least he gave me what I needed. His long, magic fingers. 

————————-

Afterward, Sherlock rummaged through the old suitcase Deal gave us.

I wouldn’t ever trust the trusted family friend again, even if he did give me clean clothes as a peace offering.

"He didn't pack any underwear,"  Sherlock said. “And it’s all secondhand off-brand jeans.” Seems Mr. Posh-boy didn’t like hand-me-downs. 

"So more of a Goodwill offering than a peace offering?" I smirked at him.

Sherlock shot me a glare as he held the clothes at arms length, then cautiously brought them to his wrinkled nose and one-by-one sniffed the jeans and t-shirt like they were doused in hydrogen sulfide. 

I cleared my throat. "Can I get dressed?"

"Knock yourself out!" he said, flinging the offending garments in my direction.  _ Fine _ . “I’m wearing what I had on yesterday.”

"What if Peter doesn’t come back?" I asked, pulling the shirt over my head.

“We proceed to the airport. He’s not coming with us unless he suspects he’s been discovered.” Sherlock studied me for a moment. "Honestly John, where’s your usual gracious demeanor? You act like he’s an axe murderer. He helped plan and execute your rescue."

Okay, maybe I was being ungrateful, but I intended to keep my forcefield up. Maybe he did care. It seemed so. Sherlock is rarely wrong. But...

“Where is Mycroft’s chartered jet taking us?" 

Before he shut the suitcase, I noticed the water bottle with the serum sat on the top.

"Big brother, so filled with ulterior motives, he’s probably not cognizant of them all himself. He rented a house on the Lake Michigan surrounded by state land that’s nice and isolated."

“A romantic hideaway.”

“Hardly. It’s going to be a bit crowded. More like the usual Mycroft artifice.”

\--------------------------

Peter made it back, and I made the mistake of asking him the long, sad story of his life, which meant I couldn't escape bouncing up and down in a hot truck cab with no fucking shocks, listening to him go on and on about Glenda, and how he  _ loved _ her, and the foolish  _ choice _ he made to give the roses to his father. I could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes. Oh. My. God! He told me how he wanted to change his life. You’d think he was the one on the couch and I was the psychiatrist. I absently nodded after each comment he made. Oh yeah, like I agreed and believed him.  _ Right-t-t-t _ . I knew what he wanted. 

It  _ was  _ interesting to hear him talk about how he fell in love with Glenda, got married and found my uncle buried alive in the sand. Interesting and creepy. And his regrets over Glenda  _ sounded _ sincere. 

Still—enough was enough; I was done listening to Peter Deal's  _ History of the World Part Four _ . Almost to the airstrip, grinding the old Ford's gears to shit, and all I wanted to know was why he was  _ so certain  _ I could alter time. Maybe if I learned the secret, I could alter time and zap Sherlock and I the fuck out of this Easy Bake Oven truck and pop into an air-conditioned Caddy. 

Best way to find out was to ask. Until I understood the mechanics, I was as deaf as Mary was to Led Zeppelin.

Problem was, Peter had trouble hearing too. I bet he listened to country music. Probably Waylon Jennings. 

I only wished he had as much trouble talking. Sherlock immediately asked about his sister. Of course, since Sherlock wanted Deal to talk he wouldn’t say anything other than confirming the woman I'd met was his sister. Seemed Deal would rather talk about me and my family.

"I'm no quantum physicist or bio-astronomer," he explained. "This is how I understand it—mathematicians have this word for the square root of negative number. You know what it is?"

"No." 

I hated math. I just remembered numbers.

"It's called an imaginary number. Engineers use them all the time. Ask Sherlock; he knows."

I looked over at him and he rolled his eyes. Again. They might fall out of his head if he did it more.

I closed mine. 

"Any objects with real mass travel  _ less  _ than the speed of light. Objects with zero mass  _ travel _ the speed of light. Now if something had imaginary mass, the object could go  _ faster _ than the speed of light. That means that object would go back in time." He nudged my shoulder. "Ever watch  _ Star Trek _ ?"

"Yes. I’ve seen them all."  _ Warp speed, communicators, wormholes, transporter malfunction splitting Kirk in two, good and evil... _

“Nerd,” Sherlock muttered. He knew what I was thinking.

"Then you’ve heard Spock or Scotty mention tachyon particles. Those are particles with imaginary mass."

My brain began playing the Beatles’ “Revolution 9” in my head. "Ok... so?"

"That's what you become."

I laughed.  _ Good or evil?  _ "One giant tachyon? Is that anything like a Klingon?" I asked.

"John,” Sherlock said, “You’ve become millions and millions of tachyons zooming through time!"

“That’s it. Follow the bouncing tachyon ball. So I  _ am _ an alien being," I said, laughing harder. "This is great."  _ Andorians, Romulans, Betazoids, slutty alien women who all fuck Captain Kirk… _

"No, you're  _ part  _ human,” Deal said. “Just less human and more alien."

"Fuck. This is crazy. You're crazy."

“I do  _ not _ have a sister,” Sherlock said. 

_ If I was green and could belly dance, would Captain Kirk grope underneath my veils too?  _

"Yes. You do. And crazy?" he replied. "I’m perfectly rational. So you think humans were part of the primordial soup? We're all aliens."

"John, he filled my parents with these fairy tales. He is crazy.  _ And  _ I have no sister."

_ Crystals... alien crystals. What were they called? Oh, yeah. dilithium crystals! That's what they gazed into at that nudist colony. Or was that in engineering? _

That was perfect. I was an imaginary number. Not a one or zero or an on or off button. I was neither. Less than zero. I knew there was a reason why I was treated as a non-person by the Community. Now I knew what it was; I was an imaginary person. I heard Scotty's voice in the back of my head:  _ "Look out Captain! The dilithium crystal's aboot to fracture!" _

Thank god, the airstrip! Sherlock might strangle Peter.

After we got seated, I decided to become invisible. The private jet was cozy yet roomy enough for Sherlock to stretch out next to me. As soon as seat belts came off, I closed my eyes and fell asleep leaning against the window. Peter was still droning on about time travel. I woke abruptly from a bit of turbulence. Sherlock was in his Mind Palace. I closed my eyes and drifted off again.

——--

Another truck, a step up from the last. This one bounced down a washboard road. Deal took a hard left. We’d been in the truck for hours traveling from Chicago to God knows where on the lake. Even Deal couldn’t talk  _ that  _ long. The wooded drive dipped down, then up the dunes. I could smell and feel it in the air—the cool gritty breeze off Lake Michigan making me ache. I scratched my scruffy chin, studying this roomy house on the edge of endless sky straight ahead. White poplars and spiky grass poked up from the dunes near the porch, deep footprints circling around the side of the house. So this was going to be our hideaway. Not a hardship at all. Peter pulled next to a tan Ford Taurus. As I stepped out of the truck cab, bottle in hand, a ball of fur flew at us, slobbering with excitement. 

“Toby!” Sherlock exclaimed, kneeling down and rolling Toby’s ears with his big hands. “How’s my boy?”

I hadn't dared hope for this. Shit, that was I lie. I had hoped. I wanted to jump in the sand! Kiss Toby! I remembered Sherlock the last time we were at the lake together. His hair was wet and dripping. Cheeks and shoulders pink from the sun. His neon green swim trunks clung to him. Water trickled down his skin, making rivulets in the sand that clung to his legs. 

Glenda watched us, forehead pressed white against the screen door. Peter stood near, behind us by the truck, nodding for her to come out. She opened the door, came up the path and stepped around us. She followed Peter around the side of the house, making new footprints in the sand. 

"Smell that lake," I said. "God, I've missed Michigan."

The floor plan was open: kitchen, dining and living area all one huge space. The lofts above and hardwood rafters danced in the reflected light off the lake. The mirrors of Lake Michigan refracted in through the floor-to-ceiling windows; the expanse sparkled. It was beautiful. Still, I'd rather spend moments looking at Sherlock as he pulled me through the house with Toby on his heels. His grin widened, eyes crinkling. 

Glenda and Peter came in through the back. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

"Starved, but I can wait here until you change." She saw my eyes rest on the grand piano behind her.

"I knew you'd love it. Isn't it perfect?" she said, gliding his fingers across the top.

“It’s really nice,” Peter said.

"Nice?! Ignoramus! It’s an old Steinway!" Sherlock said.

I slid onto the piano bench, setting the bottle on top. My fingers caressed the ivories and paused at middle C. I began playing “Rhapsody in Blue” and I about came. It was almost as good as imaging Sherlock draped across the top naked. 

"Come on, I'll show you to your room," Glenda smiled and pointed up the steepest stairway I’d ever seen, my knees popped just looking at it. I didn’t want to leave the piano, but for Sherlock, the loft was an adventure. He bounded up the ladder-like steps like a kid climbing into to treehouse or a pirate up a mast.  I picked up the water bottle, and reluctantly left the Steinway. After the last week, it was all I could do to climb the damned stairs. 

Glenda called up that she’d packed more clothes and some swim trunks in the dresser. 

At the top Sherlock pushed open the trapdoor with a bang, and I climbed through behind him, admiring how his jeans hugged his ass. He turned, reached down and pulled me up into our room.  We weren’t through more than a second before the trapdoor fell shut behind us. Behind Sherlock’s ethereal silhouette, Lake Michigan sparkled through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Serum in my hand, suddenly, I was afraid. I realized this would all change. Goddamned Peter Deal and his rants over the loss of human frailties.

My hand gripped the bottle, shaking. Sherlock gently took it from my hand.

"We had to test it. I would have preferred it was me, but Mycroft refused to let me go to get you unless I agreed," Sherlock said half to himself turning his back on me to put the bottle on the dresser near the bed. "After they took you, I couldn’t think. Nothing helped. My Mind Palace was locked." He turned and stretched his arms out from his sides. He looked vulnerable, alone.   


My hand still shook. Out the window, Peter and Glenda walked side-by-side down to the beach. "I don't deserve you," I said, turning back to his face. 

Sherlock barked back a laugh as I stepped up to him. “John, you have that backwards. I don’t deserve you. I thought we’d lost it all. But when Mycroft told me they knew where you were, I had to come. I had to find you.” He touched my cheek, then wept as his chin rested against my head. I hugged him close, fingers holding his arms tight. My face rested in his curls as he clutched my shirt with one hand and with the other he thoroughly inspected me, fingers probing and testing as if to make sure that I was really here with him. 

"I know you, John. To save me or those you love, you would willingly go with Moriarty again. Don’t. We are not worth it," he sniffed into my shoulder. “I am not worth it. Don’t do it. Not for me. Without you, nothing would matter.” He pulled back, frowning as he pinched my waist. "You're thinner and in need of a shave."

Sherlock blinked his tears and we both laughed. I dug my fingers into his back and kissed his his neck. 

"This kept me from giving up," I murmured. 

With a long look in his eyes, I moved my hands quietly down his back, to his waist, to his hips. I cleverly worked my fingers down the back of his snug jeans and kneaded his ass. 

He bit out a moan. 

This was all backwards. I was the one who cried while he consoled. I kissed his salty cheeks, then found his lips and took possession of that mouth. A deep rumble of encouragement traveled straight to my crotch. His lips curled with contentment.

Soon he would know everything there was in me. And I wanted it that way.

"These need to come off," he said to me, unzipping my jeans. They were so loose, they dropped to floor. 

He read me. He took my hands in his and pulled me to the bed, and as he tugged my shirt over my head he whispered in my ear, "Fuck me." 

His words sent a jolt straight to my cock. He pulled me down on top of him across the bed. I left his mouth reluctantly, working down his long neck to his chest. That shirt had to go. I tossed in on the dresser, then yanked down his jeans over those slender hips and kissed his belly and licked a trail right next to his jutting cock. 

"You fucking tease," he groaned. "I'm going to come right away if you continue that." 

I smiled and said, "That's the whole point." Then I buried him down my throat, bobbing my head up and down. Sherlock' gasped and his hips spasmed. He was right. It wouldn't take much the way he quivered and tensed. I knew I could make him come again with me inside him. But for now, I wanted the taste of his come in my mouth. I wanted him to see inside me like I saw inside him. 

So fast. His thigh muscles tightened, one hand knotted in my hair while the other raked across my back, then he came. I swallowed him down. 

He pulled me up, open mouthed and still hungry. 

My cock throbbed between us. No lube, so I spit on my hand and worked him open. Sherlock pushed eagerly down on my finger. I slipped two fingers in, gently feeling his tight heat around them. "I need you. You can see how much." 

“Yes, I see,” his full lips answered. I began to feel and see the familiar fireworks. Light and sparks. No longer locked tight, rooms to his Mind Palace and his emotional doors lay open to me. How could he ever compare himself to some unfeeling hard drive with just ones and zeroes? I watched his eyes as I removed my fingers and pushed the head of my cock against his opening. Amazing how the color changed within his eyes: sometimes grey, then sea green, and now bright blue with pupils blown wide. How did he know this was what I needed? I felt the heat rush from my cock to my face as I pushed past the ring of his anus. He moaned, eyes steady, holding mine. 

He gave me the strength to push all my nightmare thoughts away as I pushed inside him. Damn, if he didn't quit sucking my tongue like that, I was going to come right away, too. I let him in.

_ See in me. See all of me.  _

All the helplessness I felt, all the sadness, fled from me. He saw. I moved inside him; he was clenched tight around more than just my cock. His arms pulled me into him, crushing me to him. His memories and my memories one single history. Not a palace or house or cottage. Mine was a garden with fieldstone patios and pebble paths and wrought iron benches. He tasted like light and dark. We moved one inside the other, me from one decadent room to another inside his Mind Palace, Sherlock from trellised roses to a bed of wildflowers. The force of my body slammed into his. As his hands kneaded my ass, he begged for me to fill him deeper. That man’s voice pulled me out of his rooms before I got lost. Yes, he saw me. He felt what happened to me inside that hospital room. And I felt the moss underneath Sherlock from weeks ago, prone on the ground, life bleeding out. 

Life had changed, and it would change more. Only yards away. On a dresser sat our future.

He bit my neck, bringing us both back. To the bed. To our need. My hips snapped into him. As I reached for his cock to bring us both to climax, he pushed my hand away. 

"Just your cock. Make me come," he begged. Those eyes became impossibly dark.

God, I could do this. He trusted that I could. I knew I could.

I pushed his knees up against his chest tight between us. I slowed, moving in precise, deliberate strokes, hitting that spot with each call of his name. His chest heaved with each thrust. He was whimpered beneath me, so close. 

"Hello?! John?! Sherlock?!"

Fuck! That was Mary! What was she doing here?!

"Oh, hell!" Sherlock swore. But we were too far gone. His head banged into the headboard. 

" _ Where are you both? What are you up to? _ " she sung out. I heard hushed voices downstairs.

"Mary and Anderson are  _ both  _ here," he said, his voice strangled as I thrust into him again.

"Ignore them," I choked out, hitting Sherlock's sweet spot again. "Kinda busy right now!"

I pushed his knees back harder into his chest. One. Final. Thrust. 

That was it. 

Sherlock was calling my name loud enough for Glenda and Peter to hear him down by the lake, let alone Mary and Anderson downstairs catching an earful. 

I shook and came, collapsing on top of him, smearing his come between us. 

“Twice in nineteen minutes,” Sherlock said, catching his breath. “Excellent refractory time. Almost that of an eighteen year old.” 

God, it felt wonderful.

I heard laughing downstairs as my face pushed into the crook of his neck. I hummed. Well, I started to hum, then I began to sing into his ear. [He knew this one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQnAxOQxQIU).

My voice echoed off the walls up in our lofty bedroom, then after taking a deep breath of Sherlock's damp hair into my lungs, I exhaled, holding him close. He sang with me. No letting go this time.

Mary and Anderson would have to wait along with the rest of the world as we sang together, “I want to lay like this forever, until the sky falls down on me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big shout out to my beta, MrBotanyB, for all the help and re-sequencing of sections that keep John to his forgiving, empathetic character. She also suggested to not to include the title of the song in the end. I like the more subtle approach.
> 
> Next chapter begins what you've been waiting for: the parallel universe. This so much fun. Spread the news.


	21. No Place Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wonder no longer when the parallel universe comes into play. The walk into Wonderland begins...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are now at the half way point. Hang on for the ride! Thanks to MrBotanyB for another bang up beta job. She rights my wrongs and we bounce ideas off each other! Thank you from the bottom on my heart.

"He is thinner than usual," Anderson said. “Probably all that sex. One hundred calories, ten times per day. Hmm. Yeah, that would explain it.”

"You look like an Ethiopian poster child," Mary said from across the table, slapping more potato salad on Sherlock’s plate. 

Sherlock sat at the end of the table next to me with Glenda on the other side of him, refilling his glass of lemonade. By the look of Glenda's plate, she hadn't eaten much either.

“He looks fine to me,” she said. I recalled Sherlock’s pale legs drowning in baggy swim trunks hidden under the table. He was always slim, but I liked him that way. 

Sherlock pushed the chicken leg to the other side of his plate then picked it up, inspecting all sides.

"If only your legs had as much meat on them as that chicken," Anderson cracked. 

“If only Anderson’s head housed a brain,” Sherlock shot back along with a satisfied grin. I flipped Anderson the finger à la drumstick. Just when I thought he'd changed, Anderson goes and proves himself a true horse's ass.

I sighed at the deception on my own plate. The drumstick  _ looked  _ tasty. Since Mary made it, life experience told me it was not the case. I closed my eyes and bit a chunk off. I chewed and chewed and  _ chewed _ . Damn, I'd never disappear. 

I racked my brain for a way to hide the pots and pans from Mary. Maybe he'd eat more if Glenda or I did the cooking.    


I quarantined the chicken to the corner of my plate and picked the celery out of the potato salad with my fork. Lifted the salad tentatively to my mouth. Not bad. I ate another forkful. 

"Like the salad?" Mary asked. "Anderson made it."

Figures.

I scratched my bare chest and watched Sherlock suffering as he struggled to pry open his buttermilk biscuit. With a clang, he dropped his knife in frustration, leaning back in his chair.

I jumped. Something was moving up my leg. I tugged the red and white gingham cloth over my lap. Crap. I scraped my chair closer to the table. Up, up, up, Sherlock's bare foot slithered. Now how could I enjoy the potato salad with him doing that?

I slumped down in my seat. The big goof was grinning down at his plate. God no, what does he think he's doing? Inching higher, then a little higher. Oh, god, there. I loved the way my nerve endings tingled and sparked wherever he touched me. I closed my eyes and moaned. 

"Will you two stop?" Mary asked. "This is positively pornographic." 

Glenda raised her right eyebrow in feigned shock. 

"Go to your room if you're gonna do that," Anderson said. "I've cut you both some slack after what you've both been through, but this is ruining my appetite."

"I thought the rubber chicken did that all by itself," Sherlock said. 

I clapped my hand to my mouth after biting into a biscuit. “I think I chipped a tooth.”

Mary's eyes squinted evilly; she wound up. A chicken thigh flew across the table and hit Sherlock in the temple.

"Ouch," he hollered, rubbing the side of his head.

"Honey, don't," Anderson said, as a biscuit hit my nose.

Mary jumped up from the table.

"That does it! I'm not making dinner again," she hissed. 

"Promise?" Sherlock nursing his nose.

She slammed a carton of milk on the counter.

"They're just playing with you," Anderson called out, but behind her back he was frantically mouthing the words, “Fire the cook.” 

Glenda gave me a wry smile. She crooked her finger at me, and I bowed my head near hers. Loud enough for only Sherlock and I to hear, she said, "If I were you two, I'd make sandwiches and go out by the lake again. It's the only way you're going to get a decent meal tonight."

Sounded good. Let Sherlock make love to me in the sand, watching the sunset. Sherlock's lips turned up devilishly over the rim of his glass, and my face grew hot thinking of it. Seems the only thing I thought of the last few days was Sherlock and what positions I could curl him into. That or how perfectly the piano resonated. Maybe I should combine both and let Sherlock tune  _ me  _ up tonight and curl  _ my _ body up into his. 

Now that would improve his appetite. 

Glenda whispered into Sherlock's ear. Since he didn't blush furiously, she wasn't asking him about the picnic on the beach. Probably asking him about the damn serum again. 

When Deal and I told Glenda I had the serum, she was relieved. I thought there'd be an argument. Deal's was the only voice of dissent, arguing about timing and saying the plan was morally wrong, which I thought was laughable coming from him. I was more concerned that we had enough serum, and how many injections would it take for Sherlock to cross over. Peter grudgingly said three to five wasthe norm but pointed out that this serum wasn’t like what he or others had taken. He looked at us and said that according to Carl Jung, meaningful coincidences occur outside the realm of cause and effect. Sherlock countered that Jung was incorrect— that there are no coincidences, only cause and effect. 

What bit at me like a pesky mosquito was Glenda's reaction. I thought if anyone would be against Sherlock taking the serum, she would. I was wrong. The way she was solidly advocating Sherlock's induction made me suspicious. That's why we had both balked over the last few days; Sherlock and I agreed that we didn't want him to do this until we understood why it was so damn important to Glenda that Sherlock become like one of us. Sherlock asked her. Then I tested my psychic senses out on her to get a closer look—all we got from Glenda was that this was for the best. 

For whom?

Sherlock and I had had a long talk this morning. He said made this decision— after all, isn't this what I wanted, too? Hadn't I taken the serum for him? What if Moriarty shows up over the edge of a dune? That’s why Uncle Greg wasn't here. Glenda said being near the dunes reminded him too much of being buried alive beneath the sand. 

And it’s not only Moriarty, what if the Community finds us? All Sherlock's arguments and scenarios made sense. He was right. It was going to happen; they'd find us. We didn't have a choice. Sherlock will no longer be leverage, but I told him not to do it for me. 

His eyes assessed me across the table, turning that deeper shade of green. This evening he'd begin to become like me.

I closed my eyes. Another mosquito bite— I couldn't forget what Deal said before he left yesterday: If we did this, no turning back.

I started as Mary snatched my plate away. Then she grabbed Sherlock's. In a huff, she scraped everything down the sink.

"Do your own fucking dishes," she yelled over the grinding jaws of the garbage disposal. She marched out of the kitchen and out on the deck.

Usually, I'd let her cool off, and she'd get over it. But her reaction wasn't about our flambéing her culinary skills over the last few days. We teased about that all the time. Sherlock winked at me as I excused myself from the table. 

I followed her out to the deck. 

Her back was to me and she leaned against the railing. I could tell she was crying. 

"I don't understand any of this," she said, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Why are we here?”

I hugged her close to me, cradling the back of her head as it shook with sobs.

"I'm sorry. You know I’m not the blubbering type," she said. 

"No you're not," I laughed quietly. "But this is about things you don't have any control over. I'm the one who should be telling you I'm sorry. You're in danger because of me, and I can’t even explain why or you’d be in more danger."

"You don't need to apologize for caring." She sniffed into my neck. "You're my best friend. I've been so afraid for you. I can't help but think of Harry and losing her. I know you’re in danger and somehow all that’s happened to you is tied together. I don't want to lose you, too."

"I know."

"And I feel like a jerk for being jealous. I mean, you used to confide in me. Call me up. Gossip. Now, you have Sherlock. I feel like a shit for being envious of your relationship with him. It's not fair of me. I've been hoping you two would connect since— well, since forever, and now that you have part of me wishes you hadn’t."

I was the one who should feel like a shit. I should have known what this was all really about. 

"You want to go for a walk?" I asked. 

She nodded. I waved at Sherlock to let him know we were going, and Mary and I walked down the wooden steps to the beach.

"So," I said, grabbing Mary's hand, "how is it between you and Anderson?"

"I think I love him," she said. “Crazy, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “It’s a crazy, upside-down world.”

"He said he loves me," she said, tugging on my hand. "I know what you think of him; I used to think it myself, but he's not the same. I’m not saying that I changed him, but something has."

"Yeah, he does seem different." I hoped for Mary's sake she was right about Anderson.

We reached the bottom step and walked out to the beach. She stopped in front of me. 

"Sooo," she said, grinning.

"Yeah, I'm in love," I confessed. "I figured you'd already guessed that."

"Of course, but I'd like to hear you tell me about it. Not every day your best friend finds their soulmate. Now share."

"God, Mary. This is embarrassing..."

I walked on ahead of her. 

"Not as embarrassing as what you two were doing at the table? Or all that yelling and banging in the loft twenty-four seven?"

"You've got a point," I said, cheeks burning. "Where do I begin?" 

“So, he’s good in bed. That’s obvious.”

"He's a great lover. Well, fantastic," I confessed, my face getting hotter, and I began rubbing my cheeks. I probably had those bright pink blotches across my back and chest too. "I should have listened to you a long time ago. I know you're waiting for me to say it. Okay, Mary, I will.   _ Yes, I'm gay _ . You were right. I love Sherlock. And now my life's crazy. And I have a crazy man in love with me. God, Mary. He loves me! He really loves me! And I have a best friend, and she loves me, too. I'm really pretty fucking lucky. There are a lot of people in this world who don't have anyone who loves them." I bent and picked up a piece of polished cerulean blue glass out of the sand and worried it between my fingers. 

"I’ve been concerned for you. It’s like the world is on your shoulders. We’re alone. You can tell me. You need someone with a clear head and a fresh ear. You know you can trust me. I wouldn’t tell a soul. Not even Phil.”

I laughed, and slipped the glass in my pocket. “I wish I could tell you— not that you’d believe a word." We stopped, facing each other on the beach, the light refracting from the lake sparkled on Mary’s gold hair. She looked young and vulnerable. I’d always felt the need to protect her. I guess some things never change.

"I’d believe you." She turned and sat down on a log half buried in the sand next to an old fire pit, and I sat down next to her. "You’re having nightmares again. I heard you. The whole house did."

I shrugged my shoulders. I knew they’d returned. I pushed my feet under the sand, cooling them. Sherlock must have suggested this walk and talk to Mary; I’d missed that part until this moment. 

"I don't remember most of the dreams," I admitted. "I wish I didn't remember others. I had them when I was there. Where I was taken. And Molly was in them. She helped me." I sighed, picked up a smooth stone and threw in out into the lake. "All the nightmares aren’t about that place. Most are a combination of that and the fire." 

There are some feelings and senses that linger, good and bad. With me the good would always be my mom's cinnamon rolls at Christmas, and Sherlock's vanilla candles and chicken casserole the first night we kissed. The bad would be the putrid smell of burned flesh after the fire and Moriarty's blood filling my mouth before I clawed his eyes out. I'm terrified just remembering what it was like having his slimy hands touching my skin. I didn't know there could be anyone who was irredeemable on this earth, anyone who enjoys another's pain. He's evil.

"You're shaking. John?" she said, worry in her voice.

"I'm sorry Mary. It's hard to talk about it. I’m sorry I can’t tell you. I can’t risk it.” 

She squeezed my hand and kissed it.  "John, don't  _ ever _ be afraid to talk to me. I love you."

"I love you, too."

She tugged my faded Futurama t-shirt. 

"You need some new clothes,” she said. “And some private time with Sherlock on the beach.  Watch the sunset together. A bit of wine, picnic on the lake in the moonlight.”

"You and Glenda think alike.”

“We both want to take care of you.”

“Yes, mom."

\------------------------------

When we got back inside, I sat down and played the piano. Sherlock sat next to Mary and nodded a thank you to her. 

I decided to repay him by crooning some of his favorite Frank Sinatra songs. Afterward I called for requests. Anderson had plenty. I played and sang until the pink evening sky called. 

Sherlock and I packed a picnic basket of sandwiches, rye crackers and cheeses. Sherlock cut up a cucumber, and I found some seedless grapes. Glenda tossed in a bottle of wine. I ran upstairs for our towels. Sherlock dug out a blanket from an old chest.

Throwing the blanket around his neck, he called to me, "Aren't you ready yet?" I clamored down our bedroom stairs. Glenda nodded with a slow smile as I ran past her to get the picnic basket off the counter. Waving goodnight to Mary and Anderson with my free hand, we stepped out the back door. 

He lifted me off the deck, swinging me off my feet. As he put me down, his bathing trunks slipped down over his hips. I kissed his neck. "Where did you get these blinding neon green swim trunks from anyway?"

"Peter bought them at Wal-Mart," he said, stiffly. "He thought it was funny. He related the entire boring experience, including what one of the men in the red Wal-Mart vests said. 'Go down the end of the isle then turn west.'  Turn west!  Wal-Mart is the only store in America where it's so large they give ordinal directions."

Screw the stairs. We ran down the dune full speed, sand flying behind us, the towels and blanket flapping behind Sherlock. I jogged down behind him, hauling the basket. When we reached the bottom, we bunny hopped up and down, giggling each time the sand squeaked. Just two kids on the beach. 

Mom, Dad, Harry and I spending summers near Mears. Climbing the dunes. I remembered how scary it was standing at the top and looking down. Those dunes were so huge and steep, they looked bottomless to us. Harry and I swallowed our fear and ran. The sand squeaking under our feet with each step. And at the bottom, looking up and seeing Mom and Dad, so far away and small. Little miniature parents. Going up the dune burned our lungs and calves, but we'd forget the pain as soon as we got to the top and would run back down again.

I watched Sherlock jumping. He wasn't worrying about Moriarty or the serum or me. He was living for now. Making our memories. Leave it to Mary. I silently thanked her for helping me remember what was important. As Sherlock and I let the waves chase our feet, I  _ did _ feel untroubled, like a kid again, too. The water was damn cold, but we didn’t care.

He turned to me and his lips trembled a bit, partly from the cold and partly anticipation for what we were about to do on the beach. I dabbed my lips on his, all blue and chilled from the water and begging to be warmed. I looked forward to freeing his clammy skin in the cooling sand. The sand on his legs stuck to his swim trunks. His milky white against my tanned. My mouth tickled his earlobe, and went to warm his lips again.

I skipped at the edge of the water, kicking water at Sherlock. This place was made to help me forget, made to help me remember. 

We jogged farther down the beach. From there, we climbed over two small dunes down to a hidden inlet where we could watch the sun sink under the water. It was perfect, cozy and private with soft white sand and tufts of grass surrounding us. I spread the fuzzy red blanket. I could feel Sherlock's cool green eyes on me as I bent over so I wiggled my ass in the air. 

"Come on," he grinned, running up behind me and pinching me. Then he pulled me by the arm, hauling me to the inlet. Our feet sank in the wet sand, making footprints one inside the other. 

"It's not so cold over here," he pointed. "Let's swim." 

Sherlock drew me into the warmer water of the creek, where it spilled into the cold lake. He splashed me. It wasn't  _ that _ warm.

"Come on, let's skinny dip,"  he teased. "No one can see us back here." He'd already kicked his neon-green trunks off. With precise aim, he pitched them in the middle of our blanket oasis. I chuckled. Crazy bastard. I loved him so much. 

This had possibilities. Maybe Anderson requesting "Nightswimming" last night put the idea in Sherlock's head, or he was just pleased to rid himself of that abomination of a swimsuit. 

I stripped my baggy blue trunks off, flinging them wildly like Sherlock. Too bad my aim sucked; the suit stuck twelve feet in the air on a poplar branch. 

He splashed me again, and yelling, "You're climbing up there to get them down."

"Oh, no I'm not," I said. "This was your idea; you can climb the tree."

"Oh yeah? Maybe I don't  _ want  _ you to put them back on!"

Well, I didn't want to. Not right away, but it was too fucking cold not to put them back on sooner or later. And the water was chilly and the evening breeze off the lake cool. 

Sherlock shoved me square in the chest, sending me end over end into the water. I sputtered and flailed, then grasped the sand under my feet with my toes to stand up. Then I charged him like a fierce bull. Maybe more like a wounded steer. Well, okay, maybe more like an un-milked dairy cow. 

He stepped to the side and pushed me under. Again.  _ Mooo.  _ No fair. 

As I came up for air, he was laughing. This time I was sly. I huddled down, head just sticking out of the water. Partly for warmth, and partly to take him off guard. I stayed where I was, letting him come to me. He dipped under to his neck. Slowly he waded nearer, the gentle current rippling behind him. Then he was toe to toe with me. As I felt his toes scrunch mine, I leaned in, kissing him open mouthed, then I took my left foot, hooked it around his ankles, and ripped his legs out from under him. 

Yes! I sank his battleship!  _ Victory was mine.  _ But for only one second. His arms wrapped around my legs and pulled me under with him. Only this time I felt him hard against me. 

We emerged mouths locked, my legs wrapped around his waist. This was the kind of mouth to mouth I could get used to...Maybe he could sink his battleship in me. I loosened my grasp around his neck and slid down. 

"Look," he whispered. "The sun—"

Touching the horizon, the sun was taking its last breath of the day.  Sherlock kissed the corner of my mouth.

"Let's eat," I suggested.

"But I'm not hungry for food." 

"Tough. You're going to eat—you need to. Then I'll eat you."

He gave me a lopsided grin, dashing out of the water and wrapping a towel around him to get warm. "Hurry up!" Sherlock knelt down next to the basket, reached inside and handed me a sandwich.

"In our haste, we forgot cups," he said, holding up the wine. He hunted around in the basket, pulling out sliced cucumbers and cheese. 

"Nothing to open it with either," I said, rummaging inside the basket.

"I have a solution." He bit down on the cork, wiggling it back and forth with his teeth and mouth. My God.

“What a talented mouth." 

He spat the cork out. “Ah, John, you already know what this mouth is capable of doing.”

"Yeah," I said, “I do.” He took a long swig, adam’s apple bobbing, then passed it to me.

The cheese and crackers were good. I began to munch on them, watching the sun and Sherlock. He looked like a Greek statue, marble skin and long limbs. I sat all scrunched down on my heels as he carefully tore the crust from his sandwich and thoughtfully took a bite.

He smiled and crumbs stuck to his cupid-bow lip. 

"So you and Mary had a nice talk?" he asked, licking the crumbs away.

"Yes, we did," I said, biting into my tuna sandwich. Pretty good. Huge improvement over Mary's usual.

"You two are both best buddies again?"

"Bestest buddies."

He crunched on a cucumber slice, waiting for me to say something.

"I told her about us. She wondered about my nightmares. She brought up Harry. I've been thinking about her all evening. I wish…he never was.” I couldn’t say the rest— that I wished Moriarty was dead or that he never found my family. That the nightmares would go away if I made him go away.

Sherlock sneezed and pulled his towel snug. He always knew what I thought.

"You know how much I love you," he said. "Nothing will change that."

Sherlock passed the wine back to me. I leaned across Sherlock for more cheese. My head buzzed. Amazing, that immortals could get drunk.

I smiled lazily at Sherlock as I gulped the last few drops of the wine. And Sherlock reached into the bottom of the basket and pulled out the syringe.

"I'm going to do it," he said. 

He popped the top off the syringe. I couldn’t help but remember Sherlock’s past. Not the ending to the romantic evening I'd hoped for. Wine, cheese and tuna salad sandwiches. Sun dipping down below the horizon all amber and azure, sparkling on the waves. Sherlock jabbing the needle in his vein. 

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He recapped the syringe, dropping it in the basket, like it was left-over dinner. His eyes, now dark and dreamy. He sat cross-legged and naked. Vulnerable.

I knew the feeling too. Somewhere between need and despair. I felt it in the garden at Lestrade's. I felt it in that white hospital room at the Community. All your blood rocketing to one point. I’m glad for Sherlock that the object of desire is near since memories are never enough. The pain of denial whipped through me. This was different. I would help Sherlock with his pain. I crawled over to him across the blanket and straddle his lap, his cock pulsing against my bare ass.

"Sherlock?" 

He blinked slowly, coming out of a haze. Recognition reflected in his eyes, then suddenly his hands were everywhere, up my chest, in my hair, on my ass. His tongue found mine. 

"I'm here," I said, reassuring him. He flipped me on my back, half off the blanket and in the sand. He lined himself up on top of me, covering my mouth, hips thrusting and hands still exploring. I moaned as I felt his cock slide against mine. 

The light pressure of his hand against my wrist merged with the thorns beneath, spilling what was him into me, and the sand underneath us became warmer. I could taste the roses in the back of my throat and the heat of the sand on my back. It was like being ripped into the garden; only Sherlock and I mattered. Every nerve ending, efferent and afferent, connected to him. Moonbeams bouncing off the lake bathed his pale skin in a preternatural radiance. He looked ethereal, impossible to touch, and I touched him to make sure. My fingertips read him like Braille. Down his shoulders, to his chest, to his abs, I read every inch. His chest glistened in a holy sheen above me. I raised my mouth to beads of water left behind, licking them like nectar and drinking the scent of his chest while I moved my hand devoutly up and down the hard length of him. Every hitch in his breath, every burn in his muscles, I felt inside. 

I reverently marveled over a mole on his neck as my fingers found their home around his long cock, so rock hard, silky and smooth in my hands. Then his mouth moved down me, nipping my stomach and my inner thighs. The familiar wet warmth engulfed my cock. He'd promised to eat me, and instead devoured me whole. The sand turned unbearably hot, and sweat rolled off of me. The moon behind us watched down cold, detached. My semi-lucid brain deduced the scorching heat originated from  _ us _ . 

My eyes suddenly became transfixed on Sherlock's brow: the sweat, the gentle creases, his loving concentration. I cried out. 

Sherlock stopped. "John?" 

"What?" I stammered, as he stopped moving, eyes dark and locked on mine. I could feel him wet between my legs, slippery with sweat. 

"Where's the lube?" he asked quietly. I watched his mouth moving, his lips moist. What did those rapturous lips just say?    


_ Damn. My swim trunks. _

"Ah, up there, in the fucking tree." My mind raced. What else was there? Nothing here to use. And I sure as shit wasn't climbing that tree now. We’d used spit before. "Spit in my hand, I’ll get you ready."

Sherlock choked out a laugh.

Fuck, it burned, but I didn't care as long as he kept that up with his long fingers. 

"Say you're not sorry," he whispered in my ear, brushing my prostate with a crook of his finger. 

"I'm not," I choked out. I wasn't sorry he'd taken the serum. I wasn't sorry for us. As he  removed his finger and pushed his cock inside me, I welcomed the burn that matched the heat from the sand. He started slow and rhythmic, each thrust harder than the last. I wrapped my legs and arms around his back. Harder, harder. I fell into what Sherlock was, and he fell into me. I called to him without words. I wanted him. All of him.

I thought of how lightning hits the sand and turns to glass, and wondered if when we came, the sand would become fused from our heat. It seemed molten under us, living and flowing. The heat almost unbearable when we released. 

We lay in the sand, cooling. He cradled me against the bony, white chest I loved so much, and I listened to the comforting beat of his heart. I looked into his face, his eyes fluttering as he yawned. His fine chest hairs tickled my nose. I smiled, kissing the mole on his neck. His stomach shook as he chuckled. The sand was cool now against my back and clung to my calves and back as I sat up.

I laughed to see my swim trunks had fallen out of the tree. 

\-------------------------

We packed the basket up and headed back. The moon lit the way and a bit farther down the beach in the opposite direction we saw the bonfire where Mary and I had talked earlier. People’s voices echoed in the night air, we saw them from afar huddled round, waving for us to come over. 

"We're going to get something to drink and put this away first!" I yelled back to Mary. 

We climbed the steps up the house. Under the porch light, I spotted some variegated hostas growing near the backdoor. Funny, I didn't remember the hostas or the porch light.

The house was dark. Toby greeted us, wagging his tail, ready for a walk on the beach. As I felt around for the light switch, I heard a bang and Sherlock swearing. 

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I stubbed my toe on the leg of the coffee table.”

We abandoned everything on the couch and turned on the kitchen light. I was parched, but I took a moment to scratch Toby behind the ears. The sex and wine had drained me. Giving him a final pat on the head, I turned and opened the cupboard to grab two glasses while Sherlock slid the pitcher of lemonade out of the fridge on to the counter. 

"Do you really want to go back out to the beach?" he asked, pouring the lemonade.

"I'm tired. Think they'll be pissed if we called it a night?"

I heard the sliding door close. Shit. Guess we might not be able to sneak to bed so easily. 

"Hey, John! Grab your guitar and play for us in the moonlight."

The glass slipped from my grasp, shattering. I couldn't breathe. I stepped forward through the shards. "H-harry?" I stuttered. "Harry?!"

I didn't even care that I left bloody footprints across the floor.

"Oh, your foot," she said, as she knelt in front me. Her hand cradled it. Her touch. Her hand. Her fingers delicately pulling the piece of glass buried in my sole. 

"Harry? You're alive," I cried. 

My sister. She stood in front of me. Strawberry blonde hair, a little thin, with the beginning of a summer tan that she'd never be able to perfect because it would just join  the freckles together. She gazed at me in wonder, choking back a laugh.

"Well, yeah. Are you okay?"    


Anderson walked in.    


"What's wrong?" he asked, seeing the blood on the floor. "What happened?" Then he kissed Harry on the side of the head. Not a 'you're my good buddy" kiss, but a "you're my lover" kiss. 

My mouth open and closed, but nothing came out. This was wrong. This was all wrong. Harry was alive. Anderson was with Harry, and  _ where _ was Mary?

Like a bucket of cold water to the face, I knew. Everything had changed, just as Peter had predicted. Only this wasn't how I thought it would be. 

My head twisted violently to look at Sherlock. Really look at him. Fear, real fear looked back at me. 

"Sherlock?"

Then I did the breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth. 

"The world in a grain of sand. Eternity in an hour," he said. “It’s me, John.” Sherlock blinked. 

"How much wine did he have?" she asked. 

"Too much. He needs to go lie down. Come on John, I'll take you to our room." 

" _ Our  _ room?" Harry asked, mouth open again. "Just what happened between you two on the beach earlier?" 

"Come on to bed," Sherlock whispered in my ear.

"But Harry's here," I pleaded. "And I didn't even tap my heels three times or say  _ there's no place like home _ ."

"He really is drunk,” Anderson said.

Sherlock put his arm around me, and I knew at least one thing hadn't changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To say I'm proud of this chapter is an understatement. John and Sherlock's universe turns on end in the sand.


	22. Mona Lisa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone reading and following John and Sherlock through the new universe. Also a big thanks to my beta MrBotanyB who spotted that I didn't revise a section. 
> 
> This chapter turns John and Sherlock world on end. The tumble begins!

## 

"Harry's alive," I murmured, flinging my body back onto our bed. "I did it. I changed time."

"Lower your voice," Sherlock said. "There are no coincidences. You  _ wished  _ it, and it happened. The sand burning. Don't you remember? A reaction. You wished that Moriarty had never found your family. I do believe you made that wish reality."

The room was dark; I rolled over and turned on the brass table lamp next to the bed. I sat up, feeling as stiff and old as the knotty pine headboard my back pressed against. 

"Yeah, not my exact words," I said, stretching. "But close."

"I had similar thoughts. It’s possible that this temporal relativity, this movement in time or space or whatever it was, has had other consequences."

I reached my hand in the side pocket of my swim trunks, and there was nothing in it. No lube, no smooth blue glass. 

“John, there are far too many variables. We were together, the sand, the serum, the time of day. Too many.”

“The sex.” I should have known. Fuck. Of course. Sean said sex was the point. He was right.

Sherlock leaned his shoulder into the headboard, facing me. For long moments, neither of us spoke. We just looked at each other, numb and dumbfounded. Suddenly he grabbed both my hands, squeezing them so damn hard, I thought he'd break my fingers. His jaw clenched, and he opened his mouth to speak, biting back the words until he could hold it inside no longer. 

"We must return," he said with an intensity only Sherlock could muster. “But how?”

I was missing something important. I needed time to think this through. We don't even know exactly what's happened or changed. I was having problems thinking clearly. Past and present were confused in my head. What time was I in? I didn't know if I should or even wanted to change it back.

"It's not right,” Sherlock continued. “This isn't right. I'm not right."

What didn’t I see? “Are you hurt? What’s wrong?”

"I’m not injured. John, you've changed time. Something  _ in _ me has changed. I feel it.”

I stared at him. He looked fine to me, but if he was experiencing the same disjointed reasoning and trouble forming cohesive thoughts as I was, a shock to his intellect would terrify him. 

“Yeah, I feel it too. I don't like it. And this whole business, changing time. It's  _ god- _ like. You know, 'Hey, I'm Zeus the omnipotent from Mount Olympus, watch me wave my hand and snuff out the lives of these pathetic mortals.' Look at me. I’m in swim trunks, I’m the antithesis of god-like! You look more the part. You’d look much better throwing thunderbolts than me."

I wasn't sure how to explain. I didn't want to go back to where we were because that meant going back to Moriarty. Sherlock  _ had  _ to understand. I twisted my hands from his and grabbed his shoulders. 

"Think of it. What if you could bring back someone you loved? And you did it? Not intentionally; it just happened. Could you wish them into oblivion?" 

He nodded. "I understand that," he said slowly, "but what if you're not wishing them into oblivion? What if you're wishing them out of a better place?"

"I can't believe you’d suggest that! Like Mount Olympus? Heaven?" I removed my hands from his shoulders and stared down at my open palms. What we'd done wasn't a conscious choice, but anything we did from this point on would be. "What about my parents? If Harry's alive..."

"It’s also possible you haven’t changed a thing. This could be a parallel universe. That would also explain the dissonance that we both feel. I will drop this for now, John, since you look as if you are ready to collapse. My cognitive faculties seem to be returning, but I believe I require rest also.” 

“I'm so tired. It feels like someone's banging a rock on the side of my head."

What if we did change time again, or go to another universe. What if we couldn't go back to before? How many stories, movies and shows had protagonists that altered time and made it worse? 

My back was gritty from the sand on the beach. As I slid down the headboard, the sand was everywhere. In my suit, on the bedspread, probably under the covers now too. I noticed Sherlock staring intently across the room, looking into the mirror on the dresser. He could see up my swim trunks.

I yawned, admiring his reflection back. His handsome five o'clock shadow, the soft light in his green eyes dancing as they watched me. I could see his fingers rolling the edge of the pillow case. Then I noticed.

"Sherlock?" I asked. "What did you do with the serum?"

His eyes dropped.

"On the dresser.”

Harry downstairs, no lube in the pocket of my swim trunks and now no serum on the dresser. No second or third or fourth dose. Not good.

A soft knock came on our door. 

"Shit, what now?" I swore under my breath. "Yes?"

"John?" Glenda’s voice came from beneath the floor.

Our eyes met. Sherlock nodded. 

"Come in," I said. 

The trap door opened, and Glenda curiously peeked in at us both. 

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Might as well come in," I said. It occurred to me, and of course it occurred to Sherlock, that she might be the only one we could confide in who wouldn't think we were wacko. By the way she studied me, then Sherlock, I got the idea she already suspected something was up between us. She just didn't fathom how big. 

Was she in for a surprise.

"Glenda? When did I first meet you?" Sherlock asked. “When did John?”

She laughed. Then watching his face intently, she frowned. "What is this about?" she looked at me, curiously.

"What if I told you that I— Sherlock and I— changed...things?" I could tell by her grin that she didn't get it. "I don't mean  _ between _ us— like in, you know,  _ we had sex _ . Well, we did, but that wasn't the first time. Shit. What I mean is..." no other way to say this; I took a deep breath. She  _ was _ going think we were insane. "I mean we changed things as in  _ we altered time _ ."

Glenda lowered herself slowly, sitting on the edge of our bed, unblinking, eyes not leaving either of us. 

"So, you  _ are _ the one," she said quietly.

"Yes," said Sherlock. “Do keep up.”

I sat looking at the moon reflecting off the lake. No one spoke. Glenda sat, legs crossed, eyes bright and studying us intently. She rolled her foot in lazy circles as she thought. 

"And in your time, you two were already lovers?" she said finally.

"Yes," I answered, lopsided grin aimed at Sherlock. "She's still quick in this universe."

"What you asked before, when did we first meet— why did you ask that?"

"Moriarty," he said. “He is in this time. But he was not the dangerous man he was in ours. At least not yet.” 

"We wished him away," I added. 

"He’s still dangerous," she said, sitting forward and uncrossing her legs. "He hates us, but he’s left us alone."

"What I mean, I wished him from my family's past. I wished Moriarty never found us.”

It was remarkable that she believed us although Sherlock was not surprised. 

"I hate to ask,” she said. “But what did Moriarty do?"

"He killed them all,” Sherlock said. “John’s parents, his adopted parents. And Harry."

"Fate has a wicked way," she said bitterly.

"What does that mean?" I asked. God, no. I didn't want to know what came next, because deep in my gut I knew. 

"You never got to meet your parents,” Sherlock said, but this wasn’t deduction. He stood and began pacing around the room. “They died before your adopted mother told you. Before...before she couldn't remember anymore."

"Remember anymore?" I repeated.

I felt like I was Alice behind the looking glass. I could begin to see parts of this new time like they were real memories in my mind. Christ, they  _ were  _ real memories in my mind. What a paradox. Two memories, two times. No wonder Sherlock was so overwhelmed. 

"She's in a nursing home,” he continued. “She has Alzheimer's. You were forced to put her there after your father died from a stroke last June."

"Fuck." A horrible choice, I recalled. I even remember sitting in the living room, arguing with Harry about it. Memories merged, overlapped, swirled together with other memories.

"You came to us over seven years ago,” Glenda said. We’ve become family. Your uncle and older brother visit during holidays and in the summer. And as for Moriarty," she said, "he's unimportant although I know he’s obsessed with our family. I only know that through my father-in-law. We don’t associate with my father-in-law for the same reason."

"Your father-in-law? You mean Peter Deal’s father?" I asked.

"No," she laughed. "Victor Trevor’s. He and father were partners once. They found a way to make mortals into immortals, using the roses and blood from immortals and making a serum."

"Yes, we know all about that," Sherlock said. 

Sounded as if Sherlock wasn’t that surprised either that Deal had gone by different name. Which was real, and which was the alias? 

"What I don't get is, if Moriarty is not a threat, then we wouldn't need to be hiding here in this house. Are we on vacation?" I asked.

"You could say a vacation of a sort. Is that why you were here in the other time? Hiding from Moriarty? Ironically, you are hiding here, just not from him."

"Hiding? From whom?" I asked.

She laughed.

"Your fans, John,” she said. “You're hiding from fans and cameras. We came here after the last concert for a rest. You needed to relax before playing this coming weekend at the Silverdome." 

In the corner of my mind, I saw my band on stage staring out at over eighty thousand people in the audience in Pontiac, and I felt the terror that I'd forget the words like I did at Riverbend Center or fall off stage like I did in Montreal. I panicked, consumed by stage fright. 

"It's the end of your tour," Sherlock added. He remembered. 

I jumped off the bed. It was like I’d dropped a bad hit of acid. Memories flooded and swirled behind my eyes. I panicked.    


"Fuck! I can't play the Silverdome! I don't know the set order! Fuck! I don't even know the songs!"

I jumped off the bed, raced up and down, singing in my brain, trying to remember lyrics. My head throbbed.

"Who am I?" Sherlock whispered and sat back down at the end of the bed. “I can no longer access my Mind Palace.”

I stopped. In my mania, I'd forgotten Sherlock. 

"You're the promotional manager," she answered.

"What?" his face was flushed. I knew how he felt, because I was feeling the same myself. I knew he meant "Who am I," in a larger sense. He pressed the pads of his hands to his forehead and threaded his fingers through his hair, demanding access to his palace. Anything to get back inside. Then his palms ran across his forehead, stopping at his temples. Fingers digging into the top of his head, he squeezed like a vice. I grabbed his elbow, wishing I could sort these timelines into two separate highways and make his pain go away. 

The serum. This time travel. I worried for Sherlock. I was immortal, but Sherlock wasn't, not yet. What was this doing to him, and how could he cope with his Mind Palace locked?

"Sherlock?" I pulled his hands away from his head to replace them with mine and pulled him to my chest, my heart thudding like a bass drum. He was sick and falling. I imagined an invisible, taut string connected between us, harmonically tuned. His eyes fluttered, and he kissed my cheek. He knew what I was doing. The vibration diminished to nil and he sighed. 

"We have a lot to sort out," I said. 

He'd be fine for now, but not unless we had the serum. Over Sherlock’s shoulder, I watched Glenda. 

"Just one more question that I know the answer to, I just want you to admit it,” I said. “This wasn't just to escape fans. You brought us here because you knew what could happen in this place, didn't you?"

"The Glenda who can answer that question best isn’t here. I can say that yes, I wished this for you both.”

She stood up and walked across the room. 

"Glenda knew what would happen out on the beach with the serum,” Sherlock said. “As did you. It’s evident. You believe us because you knew."

She lowered the trap door as she crept down the stairs, a Mona Lisa smile on her lips.

"Yes, the serum," she answered through the door. “Get some rest. We'll talk about that afterward.”

Sherlock moaned as he flopped backwards onto the bed. Harry's voice carried up to us from downstairs, "So Sherlock's spending the night in John's room?"

I slid to him on the bed face to face. His lips curled a bit. “Yes, I am, “ he whispered. My hand brushed through his hair, curling a dark lock around my finger and winding it around and around. I pressed my forehead to his, letting his cool forehead and the feel of his silky hair in my fingers comfort us both. I used to twist my own hair when I was five, and I'd forgotten how safe it made me feel. Our eyes met, searching vainly for some understanding inside each other's depths.

 

"It's so confusing, this duality," he said. "A part of me thinks we've never made love." 

The house was still. I was almost afraid to breathe. We spoke in hushed voices back and forth, as if we were afraid of disturbing time again.

"A part of us hasn't," I answered. "But I remember on the beach, we almost did,  _ and _ we did kiss. God."

I slipped off my bathing suit, and Sherlock took off his. He climbed under the covers with me, resting his head on my shoulder.

"I feel so tired and beaten, like I've been awake for days and days," I said, kissing the side of his head. 

"If I could only turn my brain off, I might be able to fall asleep, but I am afraid that is not possible."

"Sherlock. Can you get into it?"

“I will try again in a bit.”

"You wouldn't think I could be stupider in another life, but I guess I was," I said. "There are so many words I haven't said to you in either."

"We’ve never needed words, John."

"Still," I said. I could make him come hard in my hand and say what I feel. For someone who bares it all on stage, I sure suck at it face to face.

I turned out the light by the bed.

I didn't like the John Watson in this time. Fuck. He'd come here to this house knowing how Sherlock felt. This John went down to the beach, knowing what might happen. Let's have a picnic, run in the sand and go skinny dipping. Get Sherlock hot and bothered without any protection or lube, leave him hard and dry. Did I even know what I wanted? I’d chickened out on the beach. I'd planned on telling him how I felt, and instead I cheated and fell back on the old excuse. Later. I was a cheat and liar to myself. A bigger liar than in my real life. Or was  _ this _ the real one? Shit. I couldn't believe I was more confused in this universe or time or whatever it was than the other. 

I  _ was _ more of an ass now, or maybe more of a confused ass. This John spent time in the garden all hot and bothered, fantasizing about Sherlock and what I wanted him to do to me, what I'd like to do to him, but not facing it, still stuck in the “I'm not gay” mode. 

I felt like  _ my _ head was going to explode, but I bet I didn't feel half as bad as Sherlock. Christ, ignoring how I felt about him. As quiet as he was, I bet he was wondering why he was even with me in any time. 

"I never went to your house. I never came over, even when the whole band went to your parties." I didn't wait for an answer. I figured if I was going to do  _ True Confessions _ , it'd be better to just come out with it all, confessing John Watson's  _ This is Your Lif _ e parts one  _ and  _ two. 

"I didn't step inside your door because I was afraid. I’m sure you know that but it needs to be said. I figured if I went to your house or was alone with you, I'd do it. I'd tell you how I felt or show you. God. I'm so pathetic. I thought about you, what it'd be like to touch, to kiss you. But I was afraid."

"Nice to know you've lusted after me as long as I've lusted after you."

"Longer...probably. Try junior high school." 

He slipped his arm around my chest, burying his face into my neck. "We're together now. Why kick yourself over what was?"

"Because I'm still not, not in this universe. Fuck. I suck at this." I curled into him, his breathing steady, waiting. "I just don't deserve you."

"You think by putting yourself down I'm  _ really _ going to see what a bargain I got?"

"Shit, I  _ said _ I sucked at this. How about this." I turned over, looking straight in his eyes. "I didn't know what it was like to wake up happy until the first morning I woke up with you next to me. And I didn't know how good it felt to smile until I sang you to sleep. And I didn't know what it was to miss hearing you say those words until I didn't have you there to say them to me."

"You're doing pretty well for sucking at this. Do keep going..."

"When I used to think loving someone forever, I thought, well, that was in fairy tales. It'd never happen, at least not to me. That day Mycroft stabbed me, I thought I was going to die and never get to say I loved you. When I found out I'd live forever-- I was all hollow until I told you. Why live forever? I didn't want to live forever without you knowing. Then when I realized it was possible; you  _ could _ be with me forever. I felt selfish for wanting us  _ to be forever _ . Now, I know without a doubt, it doesn't matter, because I'll love you no matter what. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I don't want to live forever, not if you don't love me, and I don't love you."    


"That was really good. Wait, Mycroft stabbed you?”

“You’re right. Why did I say that? Slip of the tongue.”

He deduced me like one of his sources. "I am not so certain.”

"I just confessed undying love to you, and you want to talk about Mycroft?" 

"Yes. That isn’t a subject I wish to linger on." He moved his hand lower, down my stomach. "Aren't you still a virgin in this timeline?”

I choked. 

"That means I get to deflower you  _ twice _ ..."

"Like right now?" I asked, hopefully. "Maybe that would get rid of this headache." 

"Still there?" he asked, kissing my neck.

"Yes, but not like before." I remembered something else. "Aren't  _ you  _ the one who told me sex is an excellent cure for headaches?"

"Yeah, but we don't have anything, and I don't want to use spit again."

"We don't have to. We have coconut suntan oil in the drawer."

He laughed as I pulled it out of the night stand.

"So that was John's little plan in this timeline?"

"Well,  _ yeah _ ..."

"You’re brilliant in any universe!"

\---------------------------------------

"John, get up."

He was shaking me. Just like Sherlock. Never respecting someone’s good old-fashioned rest. I pulled the sheet off and opened one eye. Sherlock's nose was almost touching mine, and he was frowning.

"John, get up," he repeated. "I got into my Mind Palace. I have new rooms! I found everything! I  _ am  _ your publicity manager! I’m rather rude, too."

"Yeah," I mumbled, "that hasn’t changed. Let a man rest!"

"Hey, we can hear you're both awake. Get your asses down here!"

"Shit, it's Smith," I said. Sean was down there with him. It was all in my head now: They're here with us, along with Harry, Anderson and Glenda.

I knew Sherlock was right, because I was remembering, too. Some. Pressing hard on my mind was the problem of the serum. Sherlock was going to need it soon, and I hoped Glenda was the key to get it. If not, then who? Maybe Peter Deal alias Victor Trevor? I sure as shit didn't want to go knocking on Moriarty's door.

"John, it’s imperative that we talk. Now."

"Yeah, there's something I need to tell you too."

Bang, bang, bang on the floor below us along with Smith's voice in falsetto crooning out: 

"Harder, harder! Oh Sherlock! Yes! Yes! That's the spot. Yes!" 

"Fuck," I said, throwing the sheet back over my head. The banging on the floor increased along with Sean’s giggling. 

"This is not going to be a good day," I sighed in resignation and threw the sheet aside. I sat up, turning to Sherlock. "Might as well get dressed." I got up, trod across the room and opened the dresser. Hmm, I actually had some nice clothes.

"Yes well, you forget," said Sherlock, as I surveyed my good fortune. "This isn't my room;  _ my _ clothes aren't in here."

I opened the dresser. Boxers. I actually had boxers.

Sherlock peered over my shoulder. “I am now certain that this is a parallel universe. The John in our timeline would never wear anything this fashionable.”

"Enough insults. Put those neon green abominations back on," I said, pointing to the floor.

Sherlock hung his head. "Must I?"

“What was it you had to tell me?” Bang, bang, BANG!

I pulled on my jeans. I supposed I could give Sherlock a pair of my boxers to wear.

"Will you two quit!" I hollered. 

“It  _ was  _ Mycroft who stabbed you.”

Must be late morning. The hazy clouds were just burning off the lake, and the sun was bright. Where was a shirt? Then I remembered, bottom drawer. Mycroft. He escaped from the...institution. He stabbed me. Mycroft is Sherlock’s insane brother. I picked up a gray Radiohead t-shirt. My fingers brushed the grease spot near the neck. I remembered, we were in Coldwater, one of those small town bars with great food. An Italian name, I recalled. Cascarelli's. We were laughing, listening to Weird Al on the jukebox when I bit into the pizza and the sauce burned my lip like molten lava. That's how I got the stain. What was this? The feeling of remembering  _ this _ John's life was odd. Kind of like I was on remote control rewind. That was where I was stabbed. In the parking lot behind the bar. 

"You remember,” Sherlock said. He bit the corner of his lip. “I fear my brother is a bigger ass in this universe then the last.” 

“Yes. Well, and about your sister...”

“She is a consultant for the Community and runs the U.S. government,” Sherlock said, sitting on the bed. “I’ll put these boxers on for now, but I’m moving my respectable clothes up here. But that’s not the half of it. I remembered something far worse.” 

The banging continued as Sherlock shimmied into my silk boxers that were way too tight. We might not ever make it downstairs. “Where are Glenda and the rest of them, anyway?" Sherlock complained. "The guys wouldn't be carrying on like this if they were here."

My brain recalled Harry and Anderson were going sailing today. But what about Glenda? And what could be far worse?

"John. What do you remember? I do. God and it’s hideous! I slept with Anderson!”

“Yes, I know that.”

“But it was more than once! God, it’s awful. Take it out of my head! We had a...relationship. No, not a relationship.  _ An affair _ . But there’s something else."

I threw the trap door open, and the racket stopped. He had an affair with Anderson?! I didn’t remember that.

I remembered being ecstatic and scared shitless playing with the band on this whole tour. We’d made it. Butane lighters and glowing cell phones swayed in the waves of people throwing devil’s horns and singing the words to my songs. I remembered smoking a joint before shows with Sherlock and  pretending I didn't want him to myself. I remembered Dad dying and the funeral. I remembered driving to the nursing home, and Mom thinking I was her brother. I remembered my sister bringing home Anderson. But I didn't remember Sherlock with Anderson.

“You didn’t tell me.” 

“Of course I didn’t tell you! God, we didn’t tell anyone! We had a secret ‘thing.’ And really, it wasn’t  _ me _ who kept coming back. Do you know the worst part, John? I can recall every little detail,” he shivered. “I’m going to delete the whole year.”

“Year! No. Well, maybe it is a good idea, but just delete the affair.”

“Wait! John!” He followed me down the steps with more caution than at a crime scene. “It’s about your sister…”

"Oh look," I heard Smith saying, "the sleeping beauties."

Sherlock climbed down behind me. Both Smith and Sean sat on the couch, Smith grinning like Sylvester eating Tweety Bird with yellow tail feathers sticking out between his lips. Sean sat there with a broom in his hand fresh from pounding the ceiling. Fuckers.

Smith took Sean's hands in his, and batting his eyes, he blurted out: "Oh Sherlock? Do you think this means I'm..."

"...queer?" Sean squeaked. “NO! Never!”

"Stop it, you assholes," I sputtered, turning to Sherlock. "Doesn't this bother you?"

"They're not making fun of  _ me _ ..." 

Well Hell. I’d show them all.

I leaned into Sherlock, mouth open and kissed him, moving my hand around his ass. I knew Smith and Sean had a perfect view. I made sure they got a good look at my tongue action before I snaked my open hand down Sherlock's ass crack and underneath. My thumb brushed his asshole while the tips of my fingers reached under and cupped his balls. 

Sherlock moaned, and I glanced over at Sean and Smith as I pinched one of Sherlock's nipples with my other hand. I thought their eyes were gonna pop. But there was something else in with that kiss. Something about Harry. 

He rutted against me, hard and awkward, erection evident through the flimsy black silk boxers. Poor guy—a helping hand straightening out his situation was just being polite. But just as my fingertips brushed the top of his cock, he grabbed my wrist and whispered, "I think that's enough."

Sherlock took one giant step back. 

"Hey," I said. "I'm not done!"

"Don't stop because of us," said Smith. "You know John, you might be in the wrong vocation; you'd make a superb gay porn star."

"I'm gonna go get dressed," Sherlock said, ducking off to his room covering his crotch. 

Shit, he left me the same way. I turned to get something to eat for breakfast. 

"So," I said, "any other plans for the day? Anyone else need harassing?" 

I got out a bowl and then dug through the cupboard and pulled out some Frosted Flakes. There was something in the back of my mind. Someone ate the last of my Captain Crunch. Probably Smith. I glanced over at them. Ha. Both sat flabbergasted on the couch. I opened the fridge and poured the milk, not too much, I still hated soggy cereal in this universe too. Then I went out to the living room and sat next to them, legs crossed, Buddha style, putting the bowl in my lap. Then without another word to either one of them, shoveled in the cereal. 

I was and wasn't ignoring them. I needed to think. When Sherlock grabbed my wrist a moment ago, those thorns under my skin prickled: Sherlock was still bound to me. He was going to be desperate for more serum soon. I knew the calling— like an addiction. I wanted the roses even now. While I found a poor substitute for the roses in the serum, I knew for Sherlock it wasn't going to work the same way. 

Maybe the roses would never call to him, but the need for the serum would. I feared the ache would be the same and maybe worse. After all, he was bound to me. What would that do to him? God, I wanted him all the time. Even now, Sherlock was under my skin like the roses. I itched for them both. I had been prepared to fuck him through the hardwood floor in front of Sean and Smith moments before. I should be embarrassed, but instead I got hotter thinking of it as they both stared at me like I was some alien being.

"So you think you can just sit there and not say anything about what just happened?" Smith asked.

The sliding doors scraped, and there stood Harry, sunburned, her shoulders and nose peeling. "What _ did _ just happen?" she asked.

She was grinning at me as she threw her towel on the chair by the door.

"Sailing good this morning?" Sean asked.

"Yes, perfect breeze. You should really come out with us before we leave. You too, John."

"I will," I said. "I'd love to." Setting the bowl of cereal aside, I stood up on shaky legs. I could do this, pretend seeing her was just an everyday thing. Anderson came in behind with the orange life jackets. I consciously stepped closer to her, and then gathered her into my arms and hugged her close before I could think about what I was doing. She smelled like Coppertone, cream rinse and lake spray. I touched her hair to make sure she was real, and kissed her forehead. 

I thought that my heart could stand pain. That all wounds would heal. But I knew the moment I kissed her forehead, this was one pain that would never go away. My Harry, my sister, was sick. Very sick. And she knew that she couldn't keep it a secret from me although she'd tried once before. 

"When were you going to tell me?" I sighed. 

I began crying. All I could think of was myself and that I was losing my sister all over again. Not  _ her  _ pain. I felt more of a jerk. Remission gone and more chemotherapy. Suddenly, I knew what this little trip to the beach was about for my sister. Memories. A chance to be together.

Maybe my little trip in time was the same.

This was a gift. And I wasn't going to waste it. Of course I'd go for a ride on the sailboat. I should have gone on the beach last night and played the guitar for her when she’d asked. 

Sherlock walked in. I could hear him behind me. Shit, I realized, he already knew. He said he remembered everything this morning. He remembered Harry had leukemia. He had tried to tell me. 

Even in this life, I pushed out the bad. 

"I was going to," she said. "I promise. But it never seemed like the right time. Last night, when you acted so strange, I knew you realized that the leukemia was back."

"What are you doing Harry, protecting me? I'm the one who needs to protect you and support you. I love you."

She hugged me tighter, looking over my shoulder at Sherlock.

"Why do you smell like coconuts?" she laughed knowingly, then whispered in my ear. "You told him. You finally did it." 

From the corner of my eye, I saw her smile at Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the section I forgot to revise? That Anderson and Sherlock had an "affair" instead of a one night stand. 
> 
> Can't wait for John to play with his band at the Silverdome? Either can I!


	23. In My Life

We stood alone talking on the porch, the waves washing the shore as a backdrop, and at first I wondered why he was so bothered by me feeling him up in front of Sean and good ol' Smith.

I didn't think. At least I didn't think about how it would make Sherlock feel.

The hurt in his face cut me in two. "It took everything inside to pull away from you in there," he said.

Maybe the cause for my serious lapse in judgment was because I've never had to exercise self-control much, while Sherlock’s struggle was never ending. Although Sherlock did have moments of spontaneity, he’d rather play life move by calculated move.

Thinking I could win playing a game with Fate was ludicrous. For me, changing time was like shooting craps. A random world where everything changed and nothing did. My family still suffered, Sherlock suffered, I suffered. Every time I rolled, Fate slapped my hand. My life had become just one helpless tumble after another. Sometimes I enjoyed some of the helpless tumbles, others left nasty scars. I learned young that when someone falls, the best thing to do was let go and roll with it. Why try to hold on if the end result was being bloody and bruised? But Sherlock? Most often he computed the precise place to hold on and grabbed it tight.

As he stared out at the lake, Sherlock sighed. He gripped the railing white-knuckled and held his coffee mug slack as if with one hand he was trying to wrestle the dice away from Old Man Fate and with the other he was caressing Fate’s face.

My eyes fixed to the same point as Sherlock's and we watched as the dark flickering thunderheads boiled over the lake clashing against the bright sky. The wind caught and slapped the poplar leaves and white caps rolled in and broke on the sand. The storm would be here in an hour. The breeze off the lake had the electric taste of ozone, and I felt the charge seep into my lungs. Lingering in the unexpected high, I waited for Sherlock to speak.

"I don't know anymore how much is you," he said, "and how much is this new universe. You’ve always been harder to read than anyone I’ve ever known. That’s always been part my attraction to you. You are a wonder, John Watson."

Part of me wanted to reach for him, but I knew he'd step back with his back stiffened if I did. He couldn't lose his self-control on the edge of a deduction. He was too close; I could feel his thoughts through my pores like the ions in the air. Even now, I wanted him, and I knew he felt the same about me but didn’t recognize it. For someone who thought he could read every person he met, he struggled to know himself.

Only weeks before, I thought the same way he did and struggled with every idea. Now acceptance had become part of my life like breathing. This power inside me had become something I couldn't live without but could calibrate. Hadn't Sherlock taught me? Breathing, slow and quiet. Sometimes I'd forget and breathe only through my mouth in long hard drags. The need I had for Sherlock was the same. I was sorry I'd lost myself earlier in front of Sean and Smith.

But this was new for him. Part of the process of turning into an immortal was a loss of self. That part had been horrifying for me too.

I blamed the roses and the Lestrades. What could he blame? A vial of serum and me? More likely the one Sherlock always blamed: himself. I saw it coming. Since self-control was so essential to Sherlock, he would feel trapped.

His hand on the railing hesitated a hair’s breadth from mine, and at last he spoke. "I know what you did in front of those two was just you being John the Unpredictable and not any different than any other time. It’s me. I am not myself. We are beings of opposite charge, and I am impelled to continually orbit you. It's painful to remove myself. John, I thought I was free when we came here, but I am not. I shake in withdrawal when you aren’t near. Right now I trying my best not to touch you. It’s a rapturous agony. Not only do I _want_ to touch you, I feel compelled to touch you."

I nodded. Yeah, I knew that feeling. I remember groping him in the back seat of Anderson's car. That first kiss in the apartment and my anger when he denied me.

I knew he didn't doubt I loved him. I was sad that he still wondered how much lust was mine, and how much was in bed with my DNA. I almost asked to go for a walk on the beach to talk about it, but that would be counterproductive.

As I stepped tentatively beside him, I noticed Sherlock's gray sweatshirt blotched with wet coffee stains from the cup he was holding. It bothered me. Spilling food all over myself was part of my nature, but not Sherlock’s, not even when stoned out of his ever-loving mind.

As I watched him frowning at the horizon, I wondered if I'd been fooling myself. Maybe I had no idea at all what it was like for him. He was bound to me. What did that mean? We _could_ stand out on the porch and continue to talk about it, but I didn't want anyone to overhear.

"Maybe we should go for a drive," I suggested. After all, Sherlock's car was parked around the side of the house. He nodded.

"I'll get the keys," he said. I gave him space, letting him walk off alone to his room. Toby ran up behind me. Of course he wanted to go. Hearing the sliding door was the signal. We walked around the side of the house to the car. As the sand stuck between my toes, I thought maybe I should have put on my tennis shoes instead. While sand and shoes don't mix, we'd be in the car, and it _was_ going to rain. Ah, I knew it was an excuse to go into the house with Sherlock. Instead I opened the door back door to his '72 Cutlass S and Toby hopped inside, then I waited in the passenger seat, brushing the sand off before I stepped inside. Same white interior, in the same pristine condition— minus one cracked windshield and bloodstains in the seams of the upholstery from the last universe.

Sherlock came out the back door, head down, watching his feet. He had on old loafers. Toby barked hello. I wiggled my toes in my sandals and sighed.

He stood with his hand on the door handle, hesitating. When he opened the door, it gave the familiar grating of metal against metal.

"Needs oil," he commented, flopping into the white bucket seat and fiddling with the keys. He raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Want to drive?”

I hesitated. He was just being polite. He'd be nervous with me driving his car— shit, I'd be nervous with either of us driving.

"No, you," I answered.

He pumped the gas once and turned over the ignition, smiling— at least his car was reliable. As he backed out he asked, "Where to? Or just drive?"

Now that was the question. I had in mind cruising around with no particular destination. For Sherlock, driving aimlessly was a waste of time.  Since I knew the area like the back of my hand, and the only thing he knew was that Lake Michigan was west, it was up to me to decide.

Besides, there _was_ a place I was dying to see again.

"Turn left up ahead. We can go to Cherry Point— it's about twenty miles from here outside of Shelby."

"You want to buy cherries?"

"And the best cherry strudel you'll ever have in your life. Almost as good as sex. Better if you lick it off my fingers.”

Sherlock practically growled.

"Well," I protested. "It's the truth. And the macadamia nut cookies are almost as good."

"You aren't going to make any smart-ass jokes like Mary would about me popping your cherry, are you?" Sherlock asked.

"No, why would I?" I asked. "Those jabs are always at my expense anyhow."

What was he all pissy about suddenly? I tinkered with the seat belt, I wondering what Mary was doing now. Not cooking, thank God. I was hungry for strudel.

"Seriously," I added. "I love the place."

I rolled down the window part way, just enough to taste the lake, and Toby stuck his head out of the window in back of me, slobbering in the wind.

"Okay, we'll go there— direct me," Sherlock said.

"Turn north on South 16th— it's up ahead. Then take the road until it ends. That's [ Cherry Point ](http://www.cherrypointmarket.net/). On the corner of West Buchanan and 16th. It used to be this little roadside stand, but now it's a bit more commercial, landscaping and all that. They also sell tourist stuff— t-shirts and books along with the cherries and fruits and vegetables like you'd find at farmers' markets. But it's their baked goods that are the best."

"So you say. Sounds like you've been going there since you were a kid."

"Yes," I smiled, rolling the window down the more for Toby. "It's one of those nostalgia things. There's a lot of memories here near Shelby. Silver Lake, Ludington, [ Little Point Sable ](http://www.thinkdunes.com/things-to-do/little-sable-point-lighthouse/), all the places we went as a family. Maybe we didn't travel much outside of Michigan, but we always had a good time here."

"Seeing the world is great, but it would have been nice if my parents took us around the state. You know I've never even been across the Mackinac Bridge?"

"No kidding? How about Mackinac Island?"

"Never. I’ve been to Italy, Spain, France, Sweden, but I’ve never seen the straits of Mackinac."

I turned on the radio. Reception stunk. Finally found a semi-good station.

"We'll have to go the island someday. Great fudge. And that movie with Christopher Reeve, _Somewhere In Time_ was filmed there. You know the movie?"

"The one where Reeve's tries to get back to his lover? What's her name? She was in that atrocious 90s show. She played a family doctor, not a helpless pioneer woman."

"You mean Jane Seymour," I added, “as a not-so-helpless pioneer woman. The movie was so sad. Famous line _'Come back to me.'_ "

He nodded. "I was thinking...John...although I can take care of myself, we _could_ play helpless pioneer woman. You could tie me to the bed."

“God, yes,” I said. It was a good thing he was driving. Sherlock nodded, although he didn't look phased at all as he absently tapped a four-four beat on the steering wheel in time with the radio. He was thinking and getting those creases in his forehead— that meant trouble.

"What if I stopped? What if I decided not to take any more serum?"

I felt like he'd just sucker punched me in the chest. "You want to stop," I said, keeping my voice flat as possible.

“I am familiar with addiction. I have been through withdrawal. I could do this.”

I turned and looked out the passenger window. From this side of the car there were no dark clouds in the distance; the sky was deceptive, the thunderheads hidden behind the treeline, pretending to be a clear, bright day, but I could feel the storm around me and the pressure building in my head. Or maybe the pressure was from what Sherlock just told me: that he doesn't want to be with me forever. There's no need for him to be immortal now with no Moriarty and with the Community sterile. No need for him to take the serum except to be with me.

I could feel his eyes on me, assessing the damage. I couldn't turn to look at him, afraid I'd give away how I felt: selfish and small and wanting him.

"I kicked heroin and coke. I mean, what could happen?"

"I don't know the answer." I knew my voice gave me away. "Turn here."

"John, look at me."

I did. In the distance, the trees broke and the dark storm behind me cast a shadow on his face.

“Lonely pioneer woman,” he whispered.

I gave him a slow smile. "Yeah. Really lonely.” My hand began to shake. “I'm sorry Sherlock. I mean, I don't know what it's like for you. If there's any way you don't have to take the serum, don't."

"It’s not like me to not know what to do next."

"We came on this car ride to figure this all out. _Hello_ ? _It's me_?! Do you think I have a clue what to do? Fuck no. When do I ever know what I’m doing?”

I played with the radio dials to keep my shaking hands busy while my brain was doing 100 mph driving over whys and what fors, searching for avenues to convince Sherlock to be with me.

"Sounds as if you’ve changed your mind about going back to our time," I said.

"I thought about your argument, about making it worse. Maybe you are correct. I’ve been able to access my Mind Palace. So much is still packed away in boxes, information stored."

I looked in his face. If only I had a Mind Palace to sort out. I could manipulate him. I could beg him. For what? Keep him miserable beside me for all eternity? I couldn't do to him what had been done to me.

"Listen, it's got to be your decision. It doesn't matter to me," I lied. He frowned, and I knew he didn't believe me. "So okay, it _does_ matter to me. But Peter or whatever his name is was right. You'll resent me, and I don't want that. I'll love you no matter what, so fuck the serum. And I'm sorry for the way I treated you in front of my brother and Smith. I know it's no excuse, but sometimes I get this irresistible urge for you to fuck my brains out. Part of it _is_ the roses, but most of it is what you do to me. I've had a taste of the serum too, and it wasn't pleasant, but roses and serum aside, I'll always lust after you."

"And I’ll always have an irresistible urge for you to do me over a table. It’s that raw need that consumes me."

"I've always thought of myself as completely irresistible,” I said half jokingly.

"Especially when you’re when wearing those leather pants..."

"Up here at this bend," I pointed down the road. "See where it turns? Park across the street."

Sherlock slowed and pulled into the lot. There were more than a few customers, good considering a storm was coming. I patted Toby on head and told him to stay. As we stepped outside the car, he whimpered his dissatisfaction with us. The nostalgia hit me when I smelled the cherries and the cool moist air from the lake. Trying to dislodge a sharp piece of gravel, I kicked my foot in the air and cursed myself for not wearing shoes.

I was right, Cherry Point had changed some over the years, but it was essentially the same: an old flat white painted barn converted to a roadside stand. White lattice for trim, the barn doors standing open, inviting the public inside to shop and pick through their wares. I limped straight for the pastries while Sherlock browsed around the shop, thumbing through books and knick knacks.

As I checked out which cherry strudels to buy, I kept thinking about Sherlock's change of mind. It shouldn't feel like it was a betrayal. It was his life, but there was a part of me that resented he could make that choice when I never had a chance.

I couldn't decide on which pastries looked best, so I took three. I was deciding on which plate of macadamia nut cookies I wanted when I heard squeals from behind a rack of sweatshirts. Two teenage girls peeked around. A petite blonde with a pink tank top shoved her friend into me. Auburn hair and tangerine lips filled my face, and she sputtered and stuttered. I stepped back. I grinned wide at her— God, she reminded me of Harry: petite frame, sparkling eyes and a Jackson Pollock splattering of bronze freckles on her nose and cheeks. But what made me really smile was that just like Harry, she was another redhead who insisted that red was _her_ color. She was all over clashing red from her clunky clogs down to her tight apple -red hip hugger shorts and her ruby sequined purse (which she was frantically digging inside). Even her hair ties were red. She hiccupped.

"Mr. Watson?" she stammered, sticking her glittering purse in my face. "Could I get your autograph?" She met my eyes and added: "I have all your CDs."

I noticed Sherlock watching me and chuckling behind the book rack as the cute blonde eyed my ass.

"Sure," I said.

Still scavenging her purse, she sighed with success, handing me what looked like an envelope and a purple marker. I fruitlessly juggled the strudels, cookies, paper and pen. Then I noticed she was looking directly at my crotch. Shit, it was like having my sister ogling me. Both our faces turned red. Hers was almost the color of her purse.

"Could you hang on to these for me?" I asked, and she grabbed both my cherry strudels, then my cookies, caressing them as if they were made of mithril. I cleared my throat. "Who do I write this to?"

"Ashley. Ashley Peters. Would it be too much if we took a selfie together?"

"All right, Ashley Peters," I winked.

As she dug her iPhone out of her pocket, I wrote a short message and handed it back, which set off another cascade of giggles.

"Thank you, Mr. Watson!"

"Call me John." More giggles. Lots more. I thought about winking at her again, but changed my mind. After checking out my package, I didn't want to give her any more encouragement. I put my hand loosely around her waist and bent my head toward hers, and she snapped the photo. Then another.

"Thank you, ah, John." More giggles.

"Um. Could I have my strudel back?"

"Sorry Mr. Watson... I mean John."

"...and my cookies?"

Sherlock was having way too much fun. I could see he had a book, _Ghost Ships of The Great Lakes_ , and a couple of sweat shirts in his arms along with a grin wide enough to split his face.

I went up to the counter next to Sherlock to pay. And I heard him talking to the cashier about me. I set my things next to his.

"Isn't that lighthouse on this shirt the one you've gone on about ad nauseam?" Sherlock asked, pointing at his purchase.

"Yeah, it's Little Point Sable."

"It's only a few miles from here," the gray haired cashier chimed in.

"Want to go?" he asked me.

I wanted to, but I looked over my shoulder at the girls, hoping they hadn't heard our conversation. I didn't want to get followed.

"Dogs are allowed on the beach, but we didn’t bring a leash. We’d have to leave Toby in the car again.”

“Won’t be long before it rains,” Sherlock said. “We could just walk down to the beach. Toby will be fine.”

“Sounds good. Could I have a quart of cherries too?" I asked the cashier. She turned and poured them from one of the quart baskets into a ziplock baggie. "We'd better hurry before the storm breaks."

As I hotfooted it to the car trying hard to avoid the sharpest shards of gravel, I heard the girls calling, "Goodbye, John," and I half-assed a wave back while Sherlock laughed into his bag of new sweatshirts.

I slammed the car door shut behind me, organizing my pastry.

"You weren't any help at all," I said.

"I didn't want to interrupt. It being your first official autograph."  He leaned into me, crooning, "Mr. Watson, your eyes are sooo much bluer in person."

"Fuck you," I said. "And she wasn't just looking into my eyes. Whatever happened to sweet, innocent teenage groupies?"

"What universe do you live in?" he laughed.

"Actually, that’s an excellent question, but for now I think one where groupies have _never_ been sweet or innocent." I opened the strudel on top and carefully ripped off the end, popping it in my mouth. Eating was the perfect way to avoid what was really eating at me. "Well, you do have beautiful eyes also, Mr. Holmes," I said and patted his knee. I tore off more strudel and ate. God it was orgasmic. Flaky, melting in my mouth. Tart cherries with just the right sweetness. I think psychiatrists are right, there are some foods that recall memories. I sighed, closing my eyes, savoring it.

"How do we get to the lighthouse?" he asked.

"Follow Buchanan. It's right off this road on the left side where the lake is of course." I opened my eyes and took another bite. Sherlock was staring at me.

"My God," Sherlock said. "How am I supposed to drive with you eating that?"

"What?" I played naive.

"You're over there licking your fingers and moaning. Take at look at yourself in the mirror."

I pulled down the sun visor for a gander. I had gooey cherry juice on the corner of my mouth. I made a production of licking it off.

"Oh, like that's gonna help," he said, adjusting himself.

"So now I can't eat?" I should hate myself for tormenting him. “You could find a place to pull over.”

"It's daylight. It's not like we can pull off to the side of the road and fuck. Besides, do you really think we could do it with Toby in the backseat?" Toby barked in answer.

I wrapped the twisty back around the end of the strudel bag. I'd wanted to go out to the lighthouse with Sherlock a few moments ago, but now I was wondering if we shouldn't. I shouldn’t push him like this. He'd think that this was another elaborate ruse to get him horny.

Fuck it. We'd go to the lighthouse. Despite his seeming indifference, it was clear to me that he wanted to see it. I’d let up on Sherlock for a bit, even though it was partly his fault for teasing me about lecherous groupies and accusing me of erogenous eating.

"Turn here," I said.

We followed the narrow inlet road along the towering dunes on the right. The sky was dark and heavy over the tops of the trees where the road took a ninety degree turn. We passed quiet private homes and beaches until we got to the State Park. The parking lot was almost empty. One straggling family was deserting the beach and packing. Mom was swiping sand from her two towheaded children's feet, and Dad was organizing the back of their SUV with coolers on one side and rainbow towels and beach umbrellas on the other.

Sherlock parked at the foot of the main entrance. Actually, "main entrance" was an overly grandiose term for it, more like the main path up the steep dune to the lighthouse. When I was younger, there was no sidewalk up the dune. It was a nice addition. It may be a state park, but it was still not a real tourist beach. It was out of the way, but the lighthouse drew more people when open for public tours. Even on perfect sunny days, the parking lot never came near filled and today with the storm looming, it was near abandoned.

Sherlock threw his loafers in the back seat and locked the car, but kept his window down a bit for Toby. He barked at us, a bit put out that we were leaving him behind. With no one on the beach, we could take him with us unleashed, but he wasn’t always into following commands, especially in new surroundings. We walked up the dune, choosing not to go the easy route on the sidewalk; I felt the burn in my calves. A lone couple brushed by us as we reached the top. Sherlock tipped his head to capture the full height of the lighthouse, cupping his hand over his eyes to ward off the blowing sand. I looked out and saw the storm's curtain pull toward us. It was agonizingly beautiful, like only a storm on a massive body of water could be, dark and frightening and foreboding. Sherlock followed behind me as I walked down to the beach.

On one of the granite boulders which served as breakers in front of the lighthouse, I sat staring out at Lake Michigan. As Sherlock settled next to me, I felt his thighs tense against mine. The swirling clouds and the foaming waves merged like a smudged swipe from an artist's palette. I silently counted less than one second between the flashes of lightning and rumbles of thunder. Sherlock reached over and held my hand. The wind blew his curls around his head. For the first time since we came to this time, I felt sincerely at peace.

The first drop of rain hit my cheek, and my eyelids fluttered as more drops caught on my lashes. The rain was warm and welcoming. The wet sprinkles against my skin cooled, urging us to go. Sherlock haltingly stood. I followed close. He reached for my hand again.

"Your eyes spark and foam just like the lake," I said, my breath light against his neck.

The air was static, and his face drew closer. In slow motion my lips dabbed one chaste kiss on his mouth.

"It matters to me that you’re with me. I’m sorry that all this happened, but I’m not sad that you’re here." I said. "I think we'd better get back to the car before we get drenched, though."

It started to pour as we ran up the dune. At the top Sherlock stopped, catching his breath as he took a long last look over his shoulder at the lake, then ahead and down at the parking lot. There were only two cars left, Sherlock's and a car parked directly next to his orange Cutlass that wasn’t there before we went down to the beach.

"Shit," I said. "That car's familiar."

"Aquamarine Buick Skylark with a cracked headlamp. It was in the parking lot at Cherry Point," he said.

"Those two girls must have followed us."

I wondered how much they saw on the beach. I _was_ hoping for a quickie in the car, but it was for the best since it wasn't a good idea for two gay guys to park in a public beach and even less wise for a horny rising musician and his publicity manager boyfriend.

A flash of lightning and thunder split the sky above us sending the hairs all over my body on end.

"That was too close," I said, running down the dune toward our car. Toby barked in greeting.

The sky opened up. Flashes and torrents pounded us and the parking lot. My clothes were drenched, t-shirt and shorts slicked to our bodies like second skins. I got to the passenger’s side of the car, waiting for Sherlock to get in and unlock it when the door to the Buick next to me opened. Toby exploded, jumping against my window. I had expected giggles and winks from the car next to ours, but instead of iPhone selfies, I got a gun thrust into my abdomen.

Through the sheets of rain, I could barely see his face, but I could see those eyes. Cold, blue and calculating.

"Moran," my voice croaked. Different parking lot, different time, but the panic inside me told me it was the same test— only instead of a turn of the knife, it'd be a bullet. This time, I saw a flash of surprise within those cold eyes. I knew his name. He hadn't expected that.

Sherlock’s car door flew open, and Sherlock scrambled out behind me, grabbing the back of my wet shirt and trying to pull me back into his car. Toby growled and bared his teeth. I bristled, waiting for the shot to rip through my gut that didn't come.

"Drop it," Sherlock choked, gulping back rain. "Leave him while you can."

I realized then that Sherlock had a gun in his hand as well. My gun. I’d kept it in his glove compartment. Why had I put it there?

"Get back in your car and this will end without incident. If not, I promise to blow what little of your brains there are in your head all over the parking lot!" Sherlock ordered.

That, along with Toby snarling and straining to get at him, distracted Moran enough so that I was able to grab Moran’s wrist and twist. He spun around and Sherlock scrambled between us, grabbing Moran in a chokehold. He jammed my gun under Moran's chin, but Moran was still armed with his .32. Toby was out of the car and had him by the leg. I thought we had Moran until he kicked Toby and wrapped his bloody left calf around the back of my leg. Light and pain tore through my skull as Moran butted his .32 into my temple, then he pushed backward, forcing Sherlock flat into the passenger seat.

As he fell, Sherlock took Moran backward with him. I grabbed Moran’s wrist with his .32 and in one white-hot jerk, I was staring up into Moran’s face with the .32's muzzle thrust under my chin. Grabbing a fistful of my wet hair in his other hand, he snapped my head back and forth.

Toby bit him again and held on, but Moran ignored it.

"I demand you stop," Sherlock yelled over the thunder as he wrenched my gun under Moran’s chin. “Only an imbecile would react this way.”

He quit yanking my hair.

"Then hold still," Moran said, "shut the hell up and get that fucking dog off my leg!"

I practiced breathing techniques while wondering how this all happened. Caught again, not a soul around to see. Cell phone in the car, but neither of us in any position to call anyone. The rain still poured down, and I was drowning in it.

"What a witless wonder! You think people aren't going to notice he's gone?" Sherlock said, shoving the muzzle under his chin tighter. "You can’t kidnap a celebrity without people noticing!"

“Who said anything about kidnapping him?”

“So you wish to shoot him? In the head would be counterproductive. Your orders were ‘not in the head,’ were they not?”

His answer was to painfully dig the .32’s muzzle under my chin. He punctuated it by banging my head into the ceiling a couple of times then bringing my eyes dead with his. Toby jumped up and chomped down on Moran’s arm, shaking his head and ripping the flesh in his arm. Despite the blood and Toby's foaming jaws, he refused to release me. He must not be able to feel a thing.

“Who the fuck are you?!” he shouted above the thunder.

"Someone you don’t want to fuck with!” I spat. “And you can tell that fucking utopian Community that you work for to kiss my ass!"

For the second time, confusion flooded his face. Good.

"How do you know about the Community?! How the fuck do you know my name?!"

"Put the gun down, you degenerate waste of space, and we might answer you," Sherlock said.

Moran frowned. Not an answer. I mimicked Sherlock’s words, but in the same tone a pastor would say 'speak now or forever hold your peace.' I already _knew_ the answer. By the way he his eyes were flickering, he knew I understood I wasn't ignorant of his intentions. Only one way out.

"If he won’t put it down, just shoot him," I said.

Sherlock’s eyes widened a fraction before answering. “Yes, John. At the count of three. One, two...”

Judging by Moran’s reaction, I was dead on that he’d believe us. The gun under my chin slowly dropped, and Toby tugged to help as I grabbed the gun away.

"Mr. Watson, I'll tell you what you want. I want _you_ to drive, and your insufferable friend here to shut the hell up— he’s a real dickhead," he said. 

“You don’t get to tell him to shut up even if he is a dickhead. That’s what I like about him,” I said, as I transferred his gun to his temple. Toby wagged his tail in approval.

I was getting pretty damn sick of being called Mr. Watson today.

“Get in the back seat. Sherlock, you drive.”

“Yes, John, we need to have a chat with Mr. Moran.”

Sherlock pushed the passenger seat forward, and I pushed Moran inside while Sherlock circled around to the driver’s side. Toby sat on one side of Moran while I sat on the other. I gathered he wasn't much different than the Moran we’d met. His eyes the same emotionless pits. Mind still stuck on the Community as the center of his universe. With a bit of luck, he wouldn’t be as fanatical about the place as the Moran in the other universe.  If he was, that would be a major obstacle since Moran had a shit-load of misplaced trust in the organization. If we could get to this Moran, maybe he'd tell us what we were up against in this universe.

As Sherlock got behind the wheel, he watched Moran in the rearview mirror. I held my gun on him, but it was purely precautionary. Toby snarling in his ear seemed to bother him. Wonderful to see that something did other than Sherlock’s mouth.

“Where is Moriarty?” Sherlock asked as he turned the ignition, then put the car in reverse.

"I told you, he needs to shut up," Moran said to me.

“I gave up trying to control Sherlock’s mouth a long time ago. Just tell us where Moriarty is and what he up to with the Community.”

"How in hell do you know me!" Moran hissed. "How do _you_ know Moriarty?"

"We've met before," I said.

"Fuck you. We've never met."

"Yes, we have," Sherlock said. "The Community is still hiding important details from you, but I’m sure even in that pea-sized brain of yours that you must know that. That is why blindly following instructions makes no sense. You're more of a faithful lapdog than Toby here. He has a mind of his own. But your loyalty is misplaced. Don’t you wonder why the Community wants John? Not for the reasons you’ve been lead to believe, I’m sure.”

“They want his blood to make the serum,” he said, flatly. “We need the serum to continue.”

“Yes, but why John?" Sherlock asked. "They can make the serum from any immortal. Why was it necessary for you to shoot him? You must know that at least," he continued, choking back a laugh. "It’s not about pain! He can change time! _He’s already done it_. That's how he knows you and the Community and that sorry waste of space Moriarty."

"That's the craziest thing I've ever heard. You must really think I'm stupid."

“Yes, you are stupid,” Sherlock agreed. “Ask John. Ask him something about the Community maybe that will persuade your tiny mind.”

"Just shoot me, then I won’t have to listen to a man with a huge stick up his ass who’s in love with his own voice.”

“Ask me,” I said.

“All right, how many floors does the Community’s headquarters have?"

"Twenty-two. I was held on the twelfth. The lab where the serum is ‘processed’ is in the basement. That’s also where it’s stored. The loading dock is to the left of the lab where a ramp goes up and into a large parking area. The walls in my room were white glossy stucco. Oh, and it’s in Buenos Aires. I hate Buenos Aires. Your turn..."

He was quiet for a few moments. "That proves nothing."

“We really don’t care what you believe. Where is Moriarty?” Sherlock said.

Moran shrugged his shoulders. I thought of telling him about Molly Hooper and her debt— that she bares the pain of her patients because she's afraid that if she doesn't care, no one will—but what would that prove if he didn't believe me already?

The rain pounding the car roof increased as Sherlock slowed the car at a stop sign. I looked up into the rearview mirror at Sherlock. Our eyes met in agreement: we both knew we’d get nothing from him. There was nothing left to get. No one at the Community was obligated to tell him a thing.

"Drop him off here," I said.

"That still doesn't change what I have to do,” he said.

“There’s no need to shoot John.  He feels pain. He cannot die.”

“I don’t even think a shot to the head would have done it," I added. I was wet and tired and wanted to crawl into the front seat with Sherlock. As I glanced up again at Sherlock and our eyes caught in the mirror, he understood I needed him _not_ to speak.

"You still don't get it?" I said to Moran before letting him out of the car. "There is no fucking way you're taking me to Moriarty. He comes to me or not at all. If you follow him, you follow a madman. He works for no one. He has no honor or loyalty. The man is a psychopath. Follow him and follow chaos."

Moran opened the door and stepped out into the rain. “I’ll take it under advisement.” Sherlock’s knuckles were white from squeezing the steering wheel, and I took a deep breath, but it was useless. We drove off and I scrambled over into the front seat.

"The man loves his work. He thinks Moriarty is some kind of god,” Sherlock said. “At least we planted doubts in mind and know Moriarty is here.”

“He never said that.”

“He didn’t have to say it. I saw it in his face.”

I bit my lip to keep from voicing thoughts that Sherlock already knew: Moriarty gets off pulling wings off flies, and I'm his favorite fly. Christ, A shot to my head would be merciful. If it’d even work. There's no way I was going to let Moriarty touch me. Worse, touch Sherlock. God, I was being melodramatic. I thought Sherlock was the melodramatic one.

"I am not,” he said.

“Fuck! How do you do that?” I said. “How do you know what’s in my head? God, but you are a drama queen," I stressed. "I guess you better move over, because I’m right alongside you.”

“John, if he gets a hold of you—if he realizes how— ”

“You think I don’t know that it's bigger than just _our_ piss ant lives?! I know your genius brain is usually way ahead of mine, but I do understand what this means. Moriarty knows what I'm capable of. He knows I can change time, and he wants to be able to do it too even if he’s only coming along for the ride.”

“John! Like I did?! If he touches you, I’ll kill him.”

“He wants to play _God_ , and if he gets ahold of me again, he may be able to do just that without my help. That’s far worse. A psychopathic killer who could alter time."

We watched the wipers battle against the rain. 

Sherlock looked down at my feet. "At least the strudels are okay."

"Thank fuck! You still understand what's really important!"

\--------------------------

We sat in front of the house staring at the door, willing ourselves out the seats, but it wasn't happening even with Toby coaxing us.

"This changes whether or not I should take the serum," Sherlock said.

"Why? Because of Moriarty? I don't want you taking it unless it's what you want. After what you said today, don't do it."

"Moriarty is near. There is no other logical choice."

"We can talk about it, but before you take it, we've got to _have_ the serum."

We both stared at the front door again.

“Glenda has it,” Sherlock said.

"Well, yes," I said, “probably.”

“I’m taking it.”

“Sherlock…”

“John. I _will_ take it.”

I closed my eyes. Toby licked my ear. "Let's try slipping into the house unnoticed. I don't want to answer a bunch of questions."

We go out of the car, and Sherlock followed me with Toby. It was quiet inside as we crept through the door. Toby’s nails clicked against the tiles. We slipped into the laundry room, and I grabbed some dry clothes for both of us.

"John? Sherlock? Is that you?" I heard Harry call from the living room.

"Yeah," I answered. "We're all wet. We'll change and be out in a few."

We ducked into Sherlock's room. Throwing my goodies and clothes on Sherlock's bed, then began stripping.

"You and the strudel...true love," Sherlock teased, pulling off his shirt. "And a gift on the dresser from Glenda. So thoughtful."

I stepped up next to him shivering. Serum and syringes.

Fuck this. I was shaking. I needed to eat. The strudel beckoned. I untwisted the tie and reached in.

"We can flush it if you want," he said, as I ripped off a piece and examined it.

"But this is perfectly good pastry!"

"The serum, you dolt!" he said.

“But you said. That’s good.” I popped the piece in my mouth with a laugh, then licked my fingers. "I was just being a smartass. You know... you don't have any clothes on?"

"You noticed, huh?"

"Hard not to..."

"Speaking of hard," he said, stepping up next to me and taking my hand in his and licking my fingers one by one.

“God, Sherlock. Would I be teasing you unnecessarily if I stripped off my jeans and you blew me right now?"

"Give me a taste of that strudel before I do," he said, then kissed me hard, tongues warring inside each other’s mouths.

"So good," I moaned. "Mmm, nice and tart. Just like you." I handed him the bag and slipped my hands down his chest. "Do you think they'll wonder what we're doing?" I asked, as I struggled with the button on the top of my jeans.

"I'm sure they already know."

The snap gave, and I unzipped it with one jerk. The jeans clung to my damp ass and thighs. I kicked out of them. I was cold and clammy, shivering and shaking— chilled clear through from both rain and excitement. I rolled him over onto the bed, seeking his heat. I needed him near me. My mind tumbled and shuddered like the rest my body. I wanted the security of his heart beating through my chest.

"You sure you want to do this?" I asked. He nodded. God, what a perfect fit, sliding ridged and locked.

"I want you," he said, reaching for the back of my head.

"This is right, so right,” I said. “Gimme another taste, cherry boy."

As I sampled his mouth  more time, I heard the plastic bag hit the floor, and he knelt down after the strudel.

“You’re so right. The strudel is _very_ good.”

I pulled him back by his hair. I needed his warmth. I let my mind get drunk on Sherlock. I needed the whole fucking mess that went down in the car to not exist for a while. Just us. He tasted like Lethe. It didn't matter if he wasn't with me forever as long as he still loved me.

If he stopped loving me, I’d flush the serum. I needed Sherlock: his caress, his sighs, his heat, his ass, his cock, his mouth, _not_ his eternal soul. I felt his thighs tense, his breathing shorten. My fingers knotted in his hair as he moved lower and took me into his perfect mouth. He moaned in that deep baritone and my cock jumped in his mouth.

“Stop, I’m going to come too fast.”

His mouth came off my cock with a pop and he came up on him hands and knees onto the bed next to me, spreading his legs and pulling his cock with those long fingers wrapped around it. I rolled on top of him, his hip bones pressed against my thumbs as I steadied him. With spit, frosting and cherry strudel, I entered him. Pulling his hair and pushing inside, he repeated my name until I bit his neck and he swore.

My gooey hands reached between us. His cock dripping with precome, I played with his tip and teased his hole as I rocked into him. It was still quick. He came with a gasp and me behind.

Slowly we spread out on the bed, dazed.  Voices in the other room brought us back. I heard my name. My skin prickled. Someone else was calling me, not Sherlock. Shaky and limp, he complained that he wanted to stay like this all ragged and satisfied.

I kissed him. "I swear," I said, kissing him again. "Your mouth is _almost_ as perfect as your eyes. Almost."

"Yes, but could my eyes make you come like these lips?"

Harry was knocking at the door.

"Come on you two," she said. "Enough. Come out here."

I giggled, rubbing his bony knees into mine.

"I guess those lips will have to wait their turn," I said.

He smiled as I pulled his to his feet and I slapped his plump white ass cheek.

As I sat on the bed fastening my jeans, all our troubles flooded back to me. Moran. Moriarty. The serum. I looked up to see Sherlock standing by the dresser. Even in the privacy of this bedroom, we couldn't escape.


	24. Reflection Nebula

I was feeling pretty cocky.

We'd been playing euchre. Sherlock and I thoroughly kicked Harry and Anderson's asses, and we were doing a supreme job wiping up the floor with Sean and Smith. And now I had a near perfect hand in hearts if I could just get the chance to call trump. Sherlock was whistling and making bedroom eyes at me. Along with the five Becks I'd guzzled, I was feeling as tipsy and giddy as a teenager in love.

"Pass," Sean said, scratching his chin stubble.

"That's a signal," I quipped. "Don't you think that's some kind of signal?"

"Yes, it is," Sherlock said, throwing me a kiss on the sly. “And now I know what he has too.”

"Better than your signals,” Sean came back. "At least ours aren't so obvious."

"Those weren’t signals,” I said. “At least not for cards.”

“We don’t need to cheat to beat you," Sherlock answered, winking at me as he rapped on the table.

"I saw that! He passed after he gave John a signal!" Sean jumped up, scamming a look at my hand. "And... and... it wasn't even foreplay!"

"He’s fucking with you," Smith said, his snapping his cards with his thumb. "That’s just Sherlock happy he's gonna get laid again later."

After the shitty day we'd just had, I liked the way Sherlock blushed and ducked his head behind the cards in his hands; it warmed my soul along with other parts of me, but every so often, I'd catch him frowning. Thinking about today, no doubt. I found myself remembering it too. 

Sherlock's chair creaked as he squirmed around. I could see he was thinking too much again and not about his cards. I took another bite of cherry strudel and carefully licked each finger. Not good to have sticky cards. That took the frown off his face. I sighed. Strudel almost gone. That's the problem with sharing: Anderson had devoured almost the whole third one.

"Fuck, Smith did you see that? Sherlock's nose twitched!"

"That's a signal all right, " Anderson laughed, snatching the last piece of strudel. "A signal that he's fucking horny."

I felt the usual twinge of jealousy when Anderson makes comments like that about Sherlock, but I let it pass. Anderson could piss me off in any universe. Glenda was engrossed in some book, pretending we weren't making spectacles of ourselves. And as long as Harry thought we were cute, I didn't give a shit about anyone else.

"And how would you know that signal?" Sean asked Anderson as he passed.

"I'm not fucking answering that."

Sherlock passed again.

"Yeah Anderson," said Sean, "take the fifth. Pass."

I took another gulp of beer and choked out: "Hearts! Alone!"

I gloated at the groans from Sean and Smith as I threw down the right, left and ace.

"Shit, lucky in cards, unlucky in love," Smith said, throwing down the king and nine of hearts along with the ace of spades.

"Lucky at both!" I said, leaning back in my chair, grinning at the rest of my hand.  Smith might have the other two aces, but ha! It didn't matter! No one else had trump.

I threw down the queen and ten of hearts.

"Should have just thrown them all down at once!" Smith grumbled.

"But that way I couldn’t watch you suffer," I added.

Sherlock leaned across the table and gave me a wet congratulatory smack on the lips. I wanted him so bad it hurt.

"I think I'll repair to the lavatory and get another beer," I said, as I stood up, stretching. I grinned at Sean. Let him think we cheated.

“Repair?! You’ve been hanging around Sherlock too long,” said Anderson. “Stop talking so uppity.” 

I raced to the bathroom since I could only hold five beers for so long. Then there was Sherlock. He obviously needed more cheering up. We both did.  After the fucking lousy day, I'd decided I knew the perfect way to turn it around. So far, it was going well. Friends and family to take our minds off Moran. A few good laughs had changed Sherlock's brooding. Nothing like watching Smith shoot beer out his nose to lighten the mood.

I came back and retrieved an extra cold one for Sherlock.

"Ah, where's Sherlock?" I asked, setting his down and twisting the top off mine.

"I don't know, but I could make an accurate guess," Anderson answered.

Both our eyes looked over toward Sherlock's room and smiled. I didn't say anything, just slipped not-so-nonchalantly out of the living room to the back of the house. I opened his door and turned on the light.

"Sherlock?" No answer and no Sherlock. 

I climbed up the stairs and checked my room next. No Sherlock there either. After that I searched the laundry room and the bathroom. My mouth went dry and my legs turned to rubber. I scoured the house like a mother who'd lost her kid at the mall.

"Okay," I said, turning to the euchre crew and trying to really act nonchalant this time but the crack in my voice made me fail even worse than before. "Where is he? Didn't any of you see where he went?"

"What's the big deal? So he went outside without you? Not like you're attached at the hip," Anderson joked.

"Maybe that's the problem," Smith said, as he got up for another beer. "He wants to be attached to him in another place."

I ignored them as I went to check the porch. He’d gone outside. Alone. Only for a few minutes, but I panicked. My hands shook and ants crawled over my skin. What if Moran had him? What if Moriarty did? Glenda’s book dropped to her lap, she sensed my fear. She set her book aside and stood slowly. She went out the front door while I went out the back.

I hoped he had just stepped out for a walk to get some fresh air on the beach, but it didn’t make sense. More like his curiosity drove him out here. A sound? A light? A test? All that went through my mind were  _ what ifs _ . I called out his name with no answer in return. I felt like I was going to vomit, and I wasn’t sure if it was from fear or separation.

As I got down to the water, the night sky merged into the lake in the distance, and the shadows on the beach played tricks on my eyes. The ordinary transformed to insidious: The body floating at the water's edge merely a waterlogged stump. Sherlock's discarded shirt in the sand was just foam from the lake waves. I raced down to the beach to find that his voice calling my name was just the wind whispering through the branches of a poplar. Still, someone was calling me. I was sure of it. As I headed for the inlet following the voice, I heard another from above. Glenda on the top of the steps near the house: "He's up here."

I spun around and ran back down the beach and up the steep stairs. I found myself crying from relief half way up as I saw Sherlock, hands in his pockets, standing on the back porch with Glenda, both watching me struggle up to them. My legs burned with every stride. I climbed the back steps, panting and wheezing from exertion. As I bent before them, all I could think of was all the what-ifs that'd gone through my brain. With my head between my knees, I blurted out, "Where the hell were you?!"

"I was cleaning my car. You got strudel all over the seat."

_ Note to self:  _ Neat Sherlock plus messy car equals hours of obsessing. Moran’s blood on the seat and dash, too. Probably sat through every hand thinking about his dirty car.

I recalled the past mess, bleeding all over his nice white vinyl seat. No, it was his fertile imagination, envisioning my blood, like an unwanted house guest, insinuating itself into pristine folds of his fine Corinthian leather—  _ oh wait _ , not leather, just vinyl. 

Glenda stuck her head in the door and gave the all clear to Harry and the others. Then, shutting the sliding glass, she turned to us— a million questions on her face. I was just relieved Sherlock was safe next to me.

"I think you should both tell me what happened today," she said. "And before you start weaving castles in the sky, I want you to know I got a look at the inside of Sherlock's car before he cleaned it. A gun was on the floorboard, and it wasn’t yours. There was blood on the seats."

So I came as clean as Sherlock's Cutlass: about what happened. Moran and his plan. That Moriarty is lurking somewhere near, and how we let Moran go. As I told her the story, it sounded surreal.

Sherlock was unusually quiet while I told the tale to Glenda. The serum. It had to be. Reason number two why he cleaned his car: to test to see how far he could separate himself from me without losing a piece of his mind. Sherlock jangled change in his pocket while he gathered more data about Glenda. She returned his gaze. 

Stars twinkled over the lake. Crickets chirped and bullfrogs croaked, and I finished. 

"You put the serum in my room," Sherlock said finally.

“Yes.” She turned her face and gazed into the night sky. "I thought that's what you both wanted..." 

"It was..." I said.

“But…” she said.

I felt his thumb brush my hand, coaxing my fingers around his.

"It still is," Sherlock said.

I should have felt happy. Or sad. Instead, I felt tired. The only thing that reassured me was the squeeze from his hand.

"The constellation Pleiades," she said, pointing to the southern sky, "you can see it much easier in the fall when it's above us. There are over 500 stars in that cluster and only six we can see with the naked eye. On a good night like tonight, sometimes you can see the seventh sister."

"How far is it from us?" I asked.

"Over 500 light years,” Sherlock said. “It's blue-colored, which means it's a reflection nebula, reflecting the light from nearby stars."

"I'm sure there's a reason you're telling me this...like that's where I'm from," I said with a laugh.

Glenda smiled and raised her eyebrow.

"People are like the nebulas. Some reflect light, some emit light and others are dark," she said.

"And what am I?" I asked, looking up I felt a bit dizzy. I reminded me of spinning around in circles on Mary’s old tire swing.

"I don't have to tell you that— you both already know what you are. And now," she said, "I think we should go in."

We stepped into a quiet house. I could hear the evening news coming from Smith's bedroom.

"We'll speak about all this further in the morning," Glenda said.

We stood there awkwardly, watching her walk off to her room. I felt like it was the first time I'd been alone with Sherlock. I chewed my lip while Sherlock bit his. We both stared stupidly at each other.

"Ah, we could probably go to my room," Sherlock suggested, tumbling the quarters and dimes around in his pocket. My mind raced. His room did afford more privacy. Every squeak and whisper echoed off the rafters from my room.

"Yeah, but..." I stopped myself.

"Yeah, but the serum's in my room, right?"

I nodded meekly.

"Listen," he said, stepping a breath away from me. "I don't want to take the serum tonight. I just want you."

I nodded again as I pulled him toward his room. I opened the door quietly, and he went through after. I turned and shut it, and I pressed him smooth against the door, face first. I raised his hands flat above his head, his palms open, both of us feeling the cool wood beneath. I moved my hands on top of his, entwining our fingers. My breath prickled the fine hairs on his neck, and his thighs warmed the front of my legs. As I pushed against him, he squeezed my hands then let go. I grasped his wrists and stretched them out spread eagle with mine against the finished wood. 

"I've thought a long time today about wanting and needing," he said. "All your words last night about how much you loved me and what I mean to you, then I spoiled it by telling you I was thinking of changing my mind."

I brought our arms down to our sides, and my chest against his back, I felt our hearts beating.

“It's scary to want someone that bad,” I acknowledged. 

“When the serum takes hold of me, I just  _ need _ . I have to  _ have _ ."

"And what do you have to have now?" I whispered, my palms sweaty against his wrists. I kissed the back of his ear.

"You."

I leaned hard into him to hold him up, swallowing as he turned around to face me and crouched a bit.

"Yes," he moaned. 

I closed my eyes and whispered his name. I knew what he meant. Sometimes it was all too much.  As I rutted into him, I pressed my mouth to the door to squelch the strangled cry that threatened to erupt from the bottom of my gut. I loved this. I loved him. I wanted to scream it out loud.

"Sherlock..." I gasped. “You need to know.”

My coarse stubble scraped rough and reckless across his neck. I opened my eyes, his face near. My chin scratched his nose as I kissed his eyelid.

"What?" he asked. "What do you want me to know?"

As I spread kisses across his brow, I tempered my voice. "I want you to know how much I care. I love you. With or without the serum."

I let go of his hands and reached between us. I slid his jeans over his hips, got his jeans off, then threw off his shirt, slipping his underwear over his tight ass and letting it fall to the floor. His hands dropped achingly slow, undoing my jeans, reaching inside my underwear, touching me. I felt like I'd explode any moment from the pressure of his fingers on me.

"I’m going to turn around," he whispered.

I loved the rub of him against me so much I didn't want him to turn. I let go of his wrist and dropped my hands.

"John?" he asked. "I need to turn around. I need you inside me. Fuck me.” He handed me a small tube of lube. So it wasn’t just change he'd been fondling in his pocket. 

“If you don't, I’m going to pick you up and carry you to the bed and strip your clothes off and throw them about the room like breadcrumbs."

I faced him, grabbing the back of his head and pulling his mouth to mine. I sucked at his tongue with the same abandon he'd used earlier that day. I loved the way I could make him tremble. His fingers went to free me from my jeans. He pulled back for a moment, his eyes growing wide and warm. I couldn’t help but love him.

"I love you, too," he whispered.

I started to slide down my jeans when I heard my iPhone ringing on the floor. I kicked it— not the ideal solution, but it worked. It stopped.

Sherlock turned around. 

"Now," I said mischievously, holding up the lube, "what to do with you  _ and _ this..." It wasn't a difficult choice to make. I squirted lube liberally on my fingers. My thumbs gently pressed against his spine and my palms butterflied out, expertly finding the knots and loosening them. My hands drifted up and down his back, each pass trailing lower than the last until finally my thumbs pressed over his tailbone, then massaged his ass. He swallowed hard as I slowly kneaded inward, brushing close, exploring. 

He whimpered, “John, please…The things one can do with cocoa butter and fingers. More.” I drew circles around his pucker. 

“So, you want me to fuck you against the door?” I asked.

“God, yes.”

I slipped a finger inside him. A deep rumble washed over me like the waves on the lake. Sherlock navigated me, rolling his hips. With a little effort, Mr. Dexterity pulled my t-shirt up and over my head, letting it drop to the floor. I pushed my finger inside him, exploring, then took it away. 

"Who's a tease?" I asked.

“We both are.” 

I bit my lip trying not to burst out laughing as he thrust his ass against me. Then I heard music. A chiming. I thought, could it be the music of the spheres? But no, this time it was Sherlock's cell.

"It's in my jeans," he said apologetically. "Probably the damn road manager calling again. Ignore it." 

"You know, this is the first time for half of me. I’m kind of like a virgin— " I said, as I nuzzled his neck, nipping him hard and making his moan. "It’s like I’m touching you for the very first time."

Sherlock’s deep laugh answered, and I brushed his damp curls off the back of his neck and blew over it. Sherlock shuddered. 

“Please don’t ruin the moment by reciting Madonna any more," he asked. 

"No. But you seem tense. I needed to lighten the mood. Maybe a nice massage to help you relax?" 

I let my cock slip between his legs, wet with precome, and he groaned in approval.

"After the  _ massage _ you gave me earlier this afternoon, it's the least I could do to return the favor." I reached around and grasped his ready cock while my finger fucked his ass. 

“Yes, John.” 

Then I felt an odd vibration on my foot. What was this? Some new fangled contraption of Sherlock's? Or maybe some bizarre sensory stimulation Sherlock evoked? Then I realized, duh, it was Sherlock's cell again! 

"Ignore it! More," he demanded.

"That's okay. It felt nice."

"If you want a vibrator, I can procure one far superior to my iPhone. For now, I want you to fuck me!" His voice shook and I noticed his head turning. Mine did too. Our eyes met in the dresser mirror, and I stroked him slowly and let my finger move painfully slowly in his ass as I let my cock slide and slip between his thighs. “God, yes! John! We look perfect. Again!”

“We look obscene,” I said as I teased his prostate, and he pushed back onto my hand. “So demanding. Tell me what else you would like me to do with my fingers?"    


“John! I love them, but I want more than your fingers!”

I met his eyes there in the mirror, willing myself not to look away from the intensity that sparked within his depths. My throat constricted as I tried to speak, but words wouldn't come. I stroked his cock, and teased his prostate again as my own cock leaked between his legs.

"Please, John. Fuck me.”

I willed him to tell me with his eyes as I watched in the mirror. Eyelids fluttering, he licked his lips, then opened them; they begged me as he pushed his cock up into my hand. If there was any doubt what type of nebulas we were, it was apparent now. His eyes as he pleaded. His brow creased, his eyes bright-green searing me.  My eyes reflected his— one hundred suns burning, a mirror of bright blue heat. Between us, we expressed what we felt, that familiar warmth spreading until we would spontaneously combust. At last I found my voice. 

"More?"

All he could do was nod and make me fall headlong into those light green eyes. It worked. I removed my finger from his ass, but continued to stroke his cock. Slow, steady. I lined up my cock to his hole and pushed inside.

I regretted not being able to kiss him at this angle, but as he pushed back into me and reflected back to us from the mirror, we felt a far deeper connection. Pain and joy coursed through us. I slammed my weight into his, pounding him against the door. My lungs burned. He rocked into me. I felt his pain ebb and as he shifted his weight— the heat from his eyes flickered like the stars we'd watched earlier. As he murmured he loved me, the sweat shimmered on his brow.

White heat spread through my veins, pulling, reaching, intertwining into his, so that the pull from my immortal heat connected us. He smiled just a little as I thrust deeper and stroked his cock, twisting my wrist a bit, building up to the moment when everything stops but our hearts. His hands moved and dug into my scalp, desperately hugging me to him. Oh, for a taste of his mouth! We were close, so close.

My chin scratched the back of his neck, and his fingers traced my face. In the mirror, he was flushed and beautiful.

This was a test of our sanity— seeing stars and mirror images. We came like that, spilling over, watching each other’s eyes in a reflection of ourselves. We slid down the door on to the floor and held each other.

I loved this part more, feeling our pulses slow together. I loved his drowsy eyes and slack mouth and his arms of comfort.

I pulled him off the floor and to his bed. We collapsed like stars there. We rested like that and fell asleep. 

And I woke to Sherlock's phone again, vibrating on the floor. Sherlock stirred, rolled over. “Must I get out of bed?” he grumbled.

I groaned, “Yes. Unless you want me to throw that phone against the wall.”

His voice slurred with sleep as he rolled out of bed and answered. The transformation was immediate. 

"Yes, I hear you," he bit out. I knew who it was without asking. He hesitated as he looked down at me. 

"Moriarty," I said. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded.


	25. Born to Endless Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to MrBotanyB for fixing my errors and helping me make my creepy Victorian-esque passage more Victorian!

The cell was on speaker, but it made sounds I’d never heard before coming from a phone. A far away interference that sounded like sandpaper against wood.

I listened and waited, watching Sherlock's face. I didn't have to hear his voice to know Moriarty was on the other end.

"Yes?" I asked. More unearthly sounds, then his voice like splinters piercing my eardrums.

"John, the window!"

I hesitated. So he was out there. I didn't need to step up to the window. I didn't need to look. I didn't need to draw back the curtain. I didn't need to see him standing twelve feet from our window to know he was there. But I was compelled to. I took the steps and pushed back the musty curtains. Diffused light from the porch lamp exaggerated his slender form. The dark transformed him into some unworldly predatory shadow, his suit so out of place in the sand that he might have just stepped through from a dream.    


" _ Come out and play _ !"  He danced around, his cell phone pinned to his ear with the yellow glow of the porch light illuminating the self-satisfied smirk pasted on his face. "We will have so much fun together!"

"I don’t play," Sherlock said.

"I think you do... You see Sherlock, you and Watson have no other choice but to play with me. Someday you will be all alone with no companions. Make it easy on yourself. Come outside and play, and I won’t play too dirty."

I felt Sherlock press against my back, looking out the window over my shoulder. He cussed under his breath, then went over to the dresser and pulled out Moran’s gun and mine. 

“He’s not coming outside,” I answered, taking my Sig Sauer from Sherlock. “And neither am I.”

“You really shouldn’t leave your phone on while having sex; it gives me soooo many ideas. When I think of all the possibilities, I just get chills!” 

Shit! I’d kicked my phone and didn’t wonder why it didn’t ring again. God. He heard us! I thought I’d be sick. Moriarty smiled, then stepped back, half concealed by the deep shadows cast from the tops of poplar trees. His free hand fumbled for something inside the lining of his jacket. I spied a flash of reflected metal— a gun. He twirled it around like a toy.

"You wouldn't want anything to happen to that devilishly handsome young man next to you, would you Mr. Watson?” he asked in a sing-songy voice. “I can think of some ways I’d like to play with him."

Sherlock grabbed my arm. "No.." he said. "You cannot go out there alone." 

I disconnected the call and made sure this time we were truly disconnected.

“You’re a much better shot than me,” Sherlock said. “I should go out, and you can cover me. Come around him from the back.” 

"Why? What could he possibly want to say to either of us? No. He’ll grab you and run off. You're not going out there with him. No way. I’d bet that he has Moran out there too."

"We need to strike first. He cannot be allowed to intimidate us." The last word was barely out of his mouth when guns popped and glass splintered like icy rain into the room. I pushed Sherlock, and we both crashed backward onto the floor. I banged the back of my head into Sherlock's jaw, and I felt silvery fingers of pain in my face as my cheek scraped his. I looked into his eyes, and felt even before I saw that Sherlock was fine. The injury must be mine, then. I winced again.

"That’s interesting," Sherlock whispered, reaching up and carefully pulling the glass splinter out of my face. He frowned at it, then at me. My eyes watered. "You were correct. He did bring friends.”

“I think I felt the bullet fly by my head."

He touched my temple before he started to stand, and I yanked him down. “You’re not bulletproof!” 

“We must see if he’s still out there.”

"What the fuck are you doing?" I hissed. “I’ll look.” I crouched down and made my way to the window, crunching through the glass.

"Careful, they can blow your head off as well as mine," Sherlock growled.

"I'll be careful. I'm kinda fond of both our heads." 

I clutched the gun tight in my hand, as the bits of glass ground under my feet. Sherlock pushed up next me under the window. He gave a wink as he wiped the blood off my cheek. "Together?" he whispered. "One, two, three." I sucked in my breath as we peeked outside just as Smith hollered out: "Are you fucking crazy?! You killed him!" 

Moriarty wasn't  _ really  _ dead. He just  _ looked _ that way. There stood Glenda, staring down at Moriarty with a shovel in her hand. 

"Shit," Sherlock cursed under his breath as the light from the back porch unveiled the scene. 

“Sherlock, will you watch out where you pointing that gun?” I said. 

Whoever else was out there had either hightailed it or were laying in wait for us to come out.

Sherlock watched with interest, but I felt it— the grit of the sand and blood in my mouth, the pain in my head. I looked at Moriarty sprawled face up on the sand, and I could have sworn it was me. I held my breath as Glenda gritted her teeth and raised the shovel over her head, winding up for another swing. Smith grabbed ahold of the handle before she let it fly. 

I felt like a bird some two-year-old was squeezing and by some miracle, released. I exhaled then dropped the gun to my side. Sherlock had already jumped free and sprinted out the bedroom and down the narrow hallway. As usual, I followed.

When we rounded the corner of the house, I saw Sean had beaten us to Smith. Sean stood face to face with Smith— forehead pressed against his. I could see as we drew closer, Smith's eyes searching and his hands gripping Sean's arm.    


The rest of the night was quiet. Glenda still held the shovel like a sentinel at the gates of hell. 

“Where are the others?” I asked.

“What others?” Sean asked.

“I was on the porch,” she said. “I saw Moran in the woods put down his rifle and walk away. I grabbed this,” and kicked the shovel with the side of her foot. 

"Jesus Christ, ya killed him," Smith whispered to her, as he tugged away from Sean and knelt down in the sand next to Moriarty's body 

"Believe me, he's not dead." Glenda said.

"Who is he?" Sean asked.

"You've heard his name. He’s James Moriarty," she answered.

"Oh man," Sean said, looking at me, his lips thin with worry. 

I tucked my gun in the back of my jeans and knelt down beside Smith, carefully turning Moriarty's head, inspecting the wound. Blood, bones and brains. Damn, those lithe little arms of Glenda's packed some power. I stared up at her. Her expression was peaceful, serene. If it wasn't for the bloody shovel in her hand and her jaw twitching, I wouldn't have known she'd crushed the back of Moriarty's skull. 

"How can you say he's not dead?" Smith said. "Christ! His brains are on her fucking shovel! Nobody could live with their skull crushed like that.”

I rubbed my head.

“Ah, somebody tell me why is Sherlock holding a gun? That can’t be safe." Smith said.

“Protection,” Sherlock replied.

"Yes. He probably shouldn’t have a gun,” Glenda said. “But do you really want to be the one to take it away from him?”

“You could. You did fine with him!” Smith said, pointing to Moriarty.

“He's not dead, just resting," she said calmly. 

My head began to throb.

Sherlock kicked Moriarty in the ribs. I flinched.

"No such luck,"  Sherlock said under his breath. "If he was dead, it'd be a relief." Sherlock kicked him one more time. I could swear I felt a pinch in my side where he kicked Moriarty.

"Hey!" Smith yelled. "That's enough! Have some respect for the dead!"

As I looked at Moriarty, I wondered what was going on inside me. This was frighteningly new. I'd never been able to get into someone else's skin without touching them first, except for Sherlock. Maybe I'm a romantic, but I thought there was special connection between us, kindred souls. Now, this with Moriarty, my worst enemy? I wondered about all the assumptions I'd made regarding my powers. Had they always been this way? Were they strengthening?

Moriarty groaned, and Smith jumped, stumbling back in the sand.   


"Fucking hell, you’re right. I don't believe it," Smith whispered. He managed to stand, taking two steps back. "He _ is  _ still alive. I'm callin' an ambulance." 

Smith turned for the house, but Sean grabbed the front of his pizza-stained t-shirt. "No."

"No?! You can't just leave him to die. Will someone tell me what the fuck is going on?! Who is he?!" Smith asked.

"An obsessed fan. A deranged murderer. A psychopathic killer! Take. Your. Pick. And will you shut up!" I hissed. "You'll wake up my sister and Anderson. I can’t believe they’re still asleep after all this. Last thing we need is to explain this to them, too. Fucking calm down."

"Shut up?!? Now you're telling me not to get excited, or I might wake up your precious sister? I think you have serious issue with what constitutes a problem. Someone whacked in the head with a shovel is more serious than you sister's beauty sleep. Shit. I feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare. Tell me what the hell is going on right now, or I'll wake the dead  _ and  _ your sister."

"That's a bit not good to say, considering," Sherlock said. 

"Don't throw that in my face! Just what I need is more  _ 'Oh, Smith is so insensitive' _ right now. You're the ones whacking people in the head and kicking them. I think I'm in a manic cross between  _ Night of the Living Dead  _ and _ Nightmare on Elm Street! _ Glenda just did a Freddy Krueger on this poor son-of-a-bitch— "

"He's no poor son-of-a-bitch," she said.    


"That's harsh— I mean wishin' an obsessed fan dead is one thing, but clobbering him over the head is extreme, don't ya think? You said he was a murderer. Who’d he kill anyway? Nevermind! Don’t answer that! I don’t care who he killed. It’s not right to stand here and watch him die."

"He's dangerous," Sherlock said. "He’d kill you without one regret. He deserves worse."

"Who is this guy?" Smith asked again. “And who are all of you for that matter? Not the people I thought I knew.”

"You wouldn't understand," I answered.

"Clue me in!"

"He tried have John shot earlier today and already kidnapped him once," Sherlock said. 

"Kidnap?" Smith asked. "When did this happen? How come I'm the last to know this shit?"

"Months ago. And he sent someone after me just this afternoon," I said. 

Smith stared at me, eyebrows raised. "I know that you think you're so damn smart, but that’s for the police or FBI to investigate, not for you to solve.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock said. “It is up to us and us alone to solve this.”

“What in the hell are you going on about?" he asked. "Nothing you say makes any sense. Maybe you're in shock! Maybe you're all in shock! Christ! Maybe I’m in shock! Nothing any of you says makes any sense!”

“I think Sherlock’s right,” Sean said, “we need to handle this.”

"We'd better tie him up before he becomes fully conscious," Glenda suggested to Sherlock. 

"I'll get some rope out of the boat," Sean answered. I watched him jog off down the dune.

"What?" Smith said. "Tie him up? What for? He won't be putting up much of a fight in his condition. I still think we should be calling the cops. If he's some kidnapper..."

"No," Glenda said, punctuating her answer with the shovel by wedging its point into the sand. She hoisted a shovelful, grains spilling over the sides. "I know exactly what to do with him." 

"What?" I asked.

"Bury him," she said. “Deep.” Her eyes bored into me as she dumped the sand onto Moriarty's chest. 

"What did you say?" Smith voice was hushed, his face a cloud of disbelief. Sean stepped closer to Smith, shoulder to his chest. He whispered something to him, although I didn't try to hear because what little composure I had left was fracturing. 

I shivered. Goose bumps spread up my arms. Suddenly I felt like I was in the 45 degree walk-in cooler back at the flower shop. I hated him, too. I hated what he was—  _ is _ — but…

"Over the dunes is perfect," she pointed. "We'll have to make the hole very big and deep."

I shook my head, "No, no," I heard myself saying. I stared down at Moriarty, and I saw him grimace.

"But I thought he wasn't dead?" Smith said, incredulously.

"He's not," I whispered. I cleared my throat. "Listen Glenda, I hate the guy as much as you do, maybe more, but we'd be like him if we did this."

"I'm not asking for your help or permission. I'm telling you what _ I  _ intend to do. He deserves much worse. It's the only way to keep you, Sherlock, and our family safe. It's the only way to protect the future."

Sean walked slowly up to us, white nautical rope in hand. He kneeled beside me and began binding Moriarty's hands.

"What's wrong?" he mumbled looking at me, tightening the slack in the cord with his teeth. My hands began to tingle.

"Glenda wants to bury him alive," Sherlock said, kneeling next to Moriarty. “I agree with her.”

He sat back on his heels and looked up at me a moment, then crawled down by his legs and helped Sean wrap the cord taut around Moriarty's ankles. Sherlock tied his feet in silence. He met my eyes for an instant and turned to Glenda.

"Behind those," he said. She pointed over to the dark wooded area of the dunes. Sherlock nodded.

My stomach tightened in disbelief. "You can't be serious," I said, clenching my hands.

"Yeah, I am. It's the only way to stop him. The only thing that will work short of chopping off his head or burning him alive. The Community forbids it. The only way is to bury him forever." 

“Jesus Christ, he’s not a vampire!” Smith said.

“No, he’s something worse,” Sean answered.

I shook my head. Sherlock's jaw set. No changing his mind.

"And if it doesn't work?" I asked. "He'll just be really pissed off."

"It will work," Glenda countered. "I'll bury him so deep he could never dig himself out."

“But someone else could,” Sherlock said. “I’ll help find the proper place to bury him where no one will ever find him.”

I felt the grit in my mouth and a burn in my chest. The unfathomable darkness and panic. Fuck. No way. "You can't do it," I said. 

"He's right! You can't do this. Why are you even arguing about this? It's insane," Smith said.

Moriarty's hands clenched. He moaned.

"Stay there with Smith. I'll take care of him," Sherlock said to me, then turned to Glenda. "I'll do it. We can both do it."

I stepped back.

"This is fucking crazy! What are you thinking?!" Smith screamed.

Sherlock grabbed the rope between Moriarty's ankles and began dragging him toward the dunes with Glenda behind.

"You're just going to let them do this?" Smith said to Sean and I.

"Yes," Sean said quietly, starting for the house. "Let's go back inside and talk. I think I have a lot to explain."

"A lot to explain?!" Smith said, following behind Sean. "I don't think you could ever explain this to me. I don't know why I should listen to anything you have to say."

I felt like someone with acrophobia who's about to bungee jump head-first off the edge of the Grand Canyon. My heart pumped and my head swam. No way could I let Sherlock do this alone, but I was paralyzed; my legs felt like they were tied together instead of Moriarty's. I couldn't force myself to follow. I watched helplessly as they disappeared into the dark.

"Are you coming?" I heard Smith ask me, his voice sounded far off and surreal.  _ Back to the house. Back where it was safe. _ I couldn't move that way either.

"No."

I stood frozen, listening to my own heart pound, my feet cold in the sand. Every so often I'd catch a word or two. I’d listen in the distance for Moran to return. Time slowed. I'd feel like an eternity passed as I struggled to move. Voices rose and fell. Finally, I put one foot ahead of the other, following the line in the sand that Moriarty's feet had made with Sherlock dragging him. I broke a branch from a tree to scrub out the traces and followed the trail. As I got to the edge of the poplars, I stopped again. 

I heard Moriarty. I heard the sand squeak beneath feet as only Lake Michigan sand can do. I heard Sherlock cough. I heard disjointed words. As I followed the voices, I felt like a specter floating along the dunes. Something snapped under my foot. I'd crushed it. I bent down, thinking at first it was a piece of Moriarty's cell phone until my finger touched it. A piece of his skull— part of him.

I can't explain why I did what I did next— some madness maybe. I was like Doctor Frankenstein shrinking away from his creation, then irresistibly drawn to the thing that would destroy him.

I reached for the bone slowly. I  _ had _ to pick it up; it was evidence left behind, I reasoned. I  _ had _ to have it. My mind gibbered  _ profane, repulsive, inhuman _ but from some place far away, as if I was dosed with some strange narcotic. I picked up the piece of Moriarty. With a twinge of horror and delight, I laughed aloud. I sounded crazy. I realized as my eyes burned that I was drowning in my own sweat. I stood up, shaking. My chest hurt like I'd punctured my lung. I clung to the bone. Fingers twitching, my other hand jerked, wanting to touch it too. Part of me said to drop it. I slipped it into my pocket.

I wondered how the hell my life could have gotten this fucked up. As I woodenly walked forward, I wished for my old life back, when all I wanted was to own my own flower shop and listen to brides-to-be argue if sonia or minuet sweetheart roses would accent the bridesmaids’ dresses. To be studying medicine. To be a doctor, a healer, not someone who destroys others. It was so far away now, I'd almost forgotten that part of me. Standing on dune with a piece of cranium in my pocket, I wished I could tap my heels three times, wake up, and find this was all a dream. 

Then I remembered what happened the last time I wished something away—   _ this  _ is what happened.  _ All _ this _. _ Maybe I'd better forget wishing if this is what I got…

As I neared them, I strained my eyes to see, and with a shudder realized  I could already see the scene in my mind's eye. Down the slope of the wooded dune, the moon illuminated Sherlock as he shoveled. He was inside the hole he'd dug with only the top of his head visible above the sand. That same shovel. Sand flew out of the pit. I stood transfixed watching the sand sparkle in the moonlight, casting an eerie haze like hundreds upon thousands of infinitesimal prisms. Glenda was using her hands. I had to shut and open my eyes again to be sure it wasn't some aura surrounding Sherlock's head. But it didn't work. It was all still there like a ghost behind my eyelids.

Sherlock was almost finished. The aura was gone. Glenda noticed me first. I don't know what I intended to do or say to stop them. I had no clear argument. I suppose each of us was trying to justify sealing Moriarty in this eternal tomb. At least I knew I was. He’d done this to Lestrade. He deserved at least the same. Sherlock believed he had to do this to protect me. Glenda reasoned this was the only way to protect the order of things. I'd tried to buy into their thinking. I tried. They thought they were  _ people, making a better world _ , like in the old insurance commercial _. _ I couldn't bring myself to buy the policy— the deductible was too high. 

"You can't stop us," she said to me. "This will end here."

I thought,  _ what melodrama. _ I bit back another burst of laughter. Didn't want to sound like a madman. But this was insane. I wanted Glenda to be right, but I knew better. No way to wipe Moriarty off the face of the earth. Even if I changed time, I'd still remember. I'd still feel the edge of Moriarty's skull rubbing my skin raw through my pocket.

"Understand," she said to me, "he is nothing but a hateful man— just a drop. But he could make a ripple, change it all."

Harry used to get frustrated with me because I had a hard time seeing The Big Picture. Now I was pretty damn sure I saw The Grand Design. It looked just like a  hole six feet deep with my name on it. It felt like they were burying me along with my worst enemy. I felt a piece of him leaching inside me. Shit, I felt it leaching inside all of us. They were burying a part of their souls, too. I wasn't sure if I could talk sense into them. There was a part of me that didn't  _ want  _ to talk sense into them. Might be best not to. But I had to give it one last try.

I only wished that Moriarty was still out cold. 

I helped Sherlock out of the hole. His hand was slick from sweat, and I latched onto his forearm to pull him out. With a jolt, I felt the intensity of his conviction in this mess. I searched his eyes as sweat rolled in rivers down his chest.

"This isn't going to work," I said. "The ground will give him up. Something will happen. Or worse, we'll lose a part of us. It's like messing with time; it's not for us to play God. You said that once— that we shouldn't mess with time. You were right. Don't do this."

"I'm doing this so you  _ won't _ end up messing with time," he said. "What other solution is there to all this? What other choice do we have? He'll destroy what you are. He'll come after us and come after us. He will not give up.” Sherlock pointed at Moriarty. “Just ask him! He hears what I'm saying. I'm not going to let you be trapped in limbo, or worse, spend eternity in a living hell with this monster! And what if he becomes like you? What would  _ he  _ do with that power? The only way out other than this is to change time again. That's a throw of the dice. What if it's worse than this? That's why I'm ending it here. It's not your choice, John. Not any more."

With the heel of his foot, he rolled Moriarty into the grave. Air whooshed out of my lungs and Sherlock turned to me. I could threaten them, pull out the gun in the back of my pants, but they know I’d never use it. 

"Go back to the house," he said. “Let us finish this. You’re too close and it’s affecting you.” He took a shovel full of sand and dumped it into the grave as he watched my face.

"No," I pleaded, but it wasn't going to work. Neither of them would change their minds. Sherlock said he had only one choice. I thought it was Moriarty screaming. Then I realized it came from somewhere else. In my head. Not me. Not him. Like some animal in agony. Maybe it was both of us screaming in terror.

We’d made a huge mistake. I understood the connection too late. My horror. My pain. Too late. There was nothing in my pocket.

Sherlock was gone. So was Glenda. Sand cut the inside my mouth as I squinted my eyes to see Moriarty hovering above me with a shovel. He flung sand down on me and laughed. 

I was the one in the hole.


	26. In Dark Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to MrBotanyB for the constructive edits and suggestion comments. I sometimes get so "inside" the story I forget everyone doesn't know as much as I do.

My head throbbed. I wished. I counted. I tried recalling all that was good and decent in my life. But nothing changed. He was still there, and the world closed in on me.    

Since the dick wad was determined to bury me alive, you'd think he'd at least say something cruel or maybe profound. Moriarty said neither. The egotistical bastard didn’t say a thing as he shoveled more sand on top of me. Each shovelful hit, broke and re-settled, trickling and crawling over my body, taking away every tiny space I had left to breathe or move. The grains glittered like thousands upon thousands of bits of glass.    

I couldn’t take his silence any more. I didn't know what was worse, him dumping load after load of sand on my chest or his silent disregard for my profanity. Even a condemned man gets a smoke or one last meal. What the fuck was wrong with him?. The least he could do was rant. I didn’t beg. Not because I refused to, but because it wouldn’t have mattered. 

He smiled down at me as he pulled a gory chunk of skull from his pocket. He tossed it next to me in my grave.   

No memory of what happened or how, but he’d beaten me with the shovel. My hands ached and tingled, side throbbed. My head hurt, and I was confused and dizzy. I struggled uselessly against the same white cord Sherlock and Sean had tied Moriarty with. My ankles and wrists were raw. Other parts felt odd as well. What had he done to me? Memories of what he had done to Lestrade all those years ago flooded back. My stomach turned, realizing where else my body was sore.  

How long ago had Dr. Deal hypnotized me? I couldn't recall. Seemed a lifetime ago. But now I understood why I felt the connection to my uncle. Both of us being buried alive was a shared experience. No wonder it felt so real to me. It wasn't some false memory; it was a premonition.   

I struggled more, but the weight of the sand on my chest and legs kept me practically stationary. 

"You fucking asshole. Think you're superior, don't you? I may be the one in the hole, but at least I'm a man."

I saw the corner of his mouth go up a bit. A little reaction. He thought it was funny. Not the reaction I wanted.

"I'm not some perverted psychopath who can't even get off without Viagra or whatever serum you happen to get out of me," I said, searching for something, anything that might get a reaction. "What do you care about? Like watching pain? Okay, you win. You've hurt me. But if you bury me, it's all over."

That got his attention. His eyes narrowed, but he didn't look at me. Instead he looked up at the canopy above us. It was a clear night. Through the leaves, I could see the stars. Then he picked up some more sand with the shovel.

"For God's sake, don't do this," my voice cracked. For a moment, I thought what I said worked. He stopped shoveling, licked his lips, then stared straight through me like I wasn't there. 

"I took what I needed, and what I wanted," he said. “All I need do now is this.” He flung a shovelful of sand over the piece of my skull next to me, then into my face.

I couldn’t swallow or breathe. My throat convulsed in a vain attempt to gulp for air, trying to think of something else to say. Something that would make him stop. I noticed the edge of his mouth curl, and then he flung a second shovelful of sand over my face, blinding me.

"You are nothing," he said.  

The sand cut and tore at my eyes. I gagged on it. I couldn't speak. All I could do was listen as he crushed me with sand upon sand. I saw flashes of light behind my eyes, either from lack of oxygen or hysteria. I wondered how even I, an immortal, could live without air. With six feet of crushing weight above, my chest cavity caved in agony. No mercy from Mother Earth as she collapsed my lungs. I knew it was only a matter of time before I'd lose my senses. 

Shit, I could move things with my mind. I'd done it before. I tried now. Why couldn't I move a bit of sand?   

Suddenly I felt weightless. I thought maybe I'd done it, I was free, but instead, I was in the place that Sherlock knew so well. A Mind Palace.

The sound of sifting sand above ceased. I began to hear other things. The waves on the lake slapping the shore. Birds singing and scratching the ground above. None of it was real. I heard my mom talking long ago. She was here with me, telling me to go to sleep and singing a lullaby. 

I walked through the rooms in my mind. I had no control over what I thought at first. Sometimes I heard music: riffs on my guitar, old songs I'd written. I'd hear entire musical scores laid out, chord progressions danced through my head. Or footsteps behind doors which I'd open only to have sand pour inside. Or I'd hear someone digging me out, which was always a pathetic invention of my imagination. Or tunes from movies I detested: _The Sound of Music,_ _Yentl_. No driving the melodies away. Who knew that hell could be Julie Andrews and Barbara Streisand?    

I tried to remember what I wished for to get here, but I could not. I tried to wish for something else to get me out. It didn’t work.    

I kept telling myself it was because Sherlock was missing. He hadn't wished. This was my payback. The bad Karma I was warned about. I shouldn't have wished without him. That's what it took last time. How did I get things so fucked up?    

I began to play over bits of my life in different rooms. My palace wasn’t to organize, like Sherlock’s, but solely to have a place to exist where I could see, hear, and move. I suppose I could have recreated a new world, but I preferred rewinding parts of my life, finding moments of what-ifs. Living inside your own mind becomes the ultimate freedom and prison. You can make all the bad go away. Everyone loves you, and you love everyone. You can live happily ever after inside your own palace. 

Until I slept. That’s when hell seeped in through every crack under every door. After a time it started to blend together. I couldn't recall what was real and what wasn't. I had no idea how many weeks passed.

\----------------------------

It was dark and the stars twinkled in the clear night sky. As I walked out to the river, leaves crunched beneath my feet. Mary's old tire swing dipped back and forth, and I climbed aboard, launching myself out and over the Kalamazoo River. Such a nice addition to my mind palace. I sat atop of the old tire and the thick rope prickled my fingers. As I swung out again, the rope groaned against the limb of the old oak. I looked down into the shimmering water as I pitched out and over the river again for the third time. This was the same as when I was a kid, and I felt the familiar jolt of excitement in my stomach.

As I swung backward over the ground, I leaned back and raised my legs, pumping to get more height when the swing abruptly stopped. 

His hands were on top of mine. He climbed on in back of me, pushing off hard with his leg. I swung out farther than before with the weight of him pressed against me. Warm breath tickled my ear as we flew out over the water.

"Still avoiding me, I see…" Sherlock said. “I like your Mind Palace better.”

\---------------------------  

I was no longer sure when I was asleep and when I was in my Mind Palace. Waking up buried alive was my number one horror. I could no longer prevent reality creeping in to my existence from time to time. No matter how many happy thoughts I conjured in the palace, my mind knew my body was trapped, and this infiltrated my dreams.   

Like before with Sherlock and I, I thought bits of this new timeline were crawling in. But I was never sure because sleep and waking were so much alike, I wasn't sure what were new memories or old memories or a dream world or nightmares. Then came the point where I began to prefer the nightmares. Memories of singing to my sister or making love to Sherlock became unbearable since I began to believe I would never experience them again.

\----------------------------

I lay on my side next to him, sheet crumpled between us.

"You want to come now?" I asked. He bit down hard on his plump bottom lip, his eyes following my hand. I loved watching him, watching me.

"Harder?" I asked, and he nodded.

His whole body tensed as I pressed up closer to him, and he gasped to me those last frantic moments before orgasm, spilling over my hand.    

\----------------------------    

I woke. I couldn't scream or laugh hysterically. I could cry, though I was running out of moisture to make tears. I was still here, trapped in this cold, dark place.

Dry and matted, I suffered my memories of times alone with Sherlock, loving what I thought I'd never touch again and regretting not touching what I could have loved and pushed away from foolishness. I could still feel his hands on top of mine. In the darkness, I could see his unearthly green eyes, and feel his scruffy chin scraping mine. I got goose-bumps as his long, skilled fingers shaped me, forced me to relive our moments together. He would go on without me and find someone else to love. My heart still beat. I would love him as long as it did.   

\----------------------------

"Good morning," he said, kissing my temple. "Coffee? Cornflakes? Eggs?"

"Mmm, toast. And coffee. Black."

\----------------------------    

The nightmare of being buried alive was painful, but far worse was the idea of Moriarty hurting Sherlock. I worried where he was, what he was doing and if he was safe. I conjured fates for him far worse than mine. I tried to recall what he was to me here in this time. I needed to know. I tried to see, but there was nothing.   

And I remembered Moriarty's last words, and they terrified me. He'd gotten what he wanted and needed. What did he mean? 

He hadn't just fucked me; he'd fucked my world. Could he change time? Feel pain? Hurt the people who meant the universe to me? What would he do?  

\----------------------------    

Toby was barking. I'd heard the same so many times before. An auditory hallucination, or another wish made into a dream. I ignored it. I heard scraping. I reminded myself I was hearing only what I wished for. When light blinded me, when I heard Glenda say, "He's here," I still didn't believe it was real, not until they pulled me out, and I felt my face wet from Sean’s tears as he hugged me, crying.  

I shivered, I choked and sobbed along with them, Glenda, Gregory, and Sean. Toby licked my face without a care about the sand. After wrapping me in a moth-eaten red wood blanket, Lestrade carried me out to his car.

They gave me water. I gulped down too much, but I didn’t care.    

The long ride home didn't seem so long. Not compared to the eternity I'd just spent underground. 

I scratched myself raw on the way trying to get the sand off. Shit, it was fucking  _ inside  _ me and crawling to get out. I didn't think that feeling would ever leave. Part of me thought I was dreaming.

Toby warmed my lap as I leaned closer to Sean. He told me how long they'd looked for me. It was Lestrade who finally found the spot where I was buried. They weren't sure what they'd find.   

I could barely choke out the words, but I had to speak. To prove to myself I was real. "Thank you, thank you for finding me, Mr. Lestrade."   

"What's this with calling me Mr. Lestrade? I thought you were over that long ago."  

"Uncle Gregory," I said.   

"You're forgiven for calling me Lestrade. I’d so happy I’d forgive you anything right now!" he said, looking at me in the rearview mirror. "Do you want to stop somewhere for something to eat? Something warm to drink? You're shaking the springs loose in that seat."

"God, coffee sounds like heaven, but home. To Sherlock." 

I closed my eyes and let my head fall back on the seat. Far off I heard Glenda repeat “Sherlock?” 

I must have fallen asleep, because I jumped awake, breathing hard. “How did you find me?”

“It was my idea,” Sean said, “to use Toby. We tried it before, but this time we went to a different part of the beach.” Sean reached over and squeezed my hand.

"For a moment there when I woke up just now, I thought I was back there," I said.  

"Well, you're here. After all those months..." Sean said.   

"I'm going to make sure he never hurts us again," my uncle said. I noticed his hands were clenched white on the steering wheel. "It's something I should have done a long time ago."

And as they pulled into the long driveway at the Lestrade's home, I sat up and pressed my forehead to the car window.  _ Months... I was down there for months... _

"The whole world has changed," I said aloud.   

"What?" Sean asked me. "What did you say?"   

There were no leaves on the trees. Dirty patches of snow lined the drive.  

"Sherlock," I said louder. "Where is Sherlock?" 

"Sherlock who?" Glenda asked. “You said that before.”  

"Sherlock?" said Sean. He turned to me and jabbed me in the ribs. "Do you mean Sherlock Holmes?"      

I nodded.    

"Our band's manager," Sean said to her. “The man can get things done. Spent some time as freelance reporter. You must have heard us talk about him before.”    

"I don’t recall. Why would you ask about him?" Glenda wondered as she looked over the seat at me.

Uncle Greg stopped the car in front of the house. Massive icicles hung almost to the ground off the old Victorian porch, some were as big around as my calf. 

They really needed to invest in some insulation.   

"No reason," I said, watching the crisp light fragment in the huge icicles. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Glenda raised her eyebrow, sighed and opened her car door, then came around to mine. This parallel universe I was in...I was trying to suss out my life in it. I wondered when it would come to me.

As she helped me out of the car, I noticed she was crying. 

"You have no shoes," she said. "Maybe your uncle should carry you..." I shook my head as she gave me an arm up. 

Fuck. The ground was cold, but I didn't want him carrying me into the house. I didn’t want to be overwhelmed. They’d kept their distance and let me come to them. 

I grabbed her arm as we climbed the icy steps (more for my support than hers). Toby led the way. I instinctively reached to scratch him behind the ear. “Thank you, boy.”

"We’re all thankful to him. He’s getting a big steak tonight," my uncle chuckled and helped me scratch Toby under the chin. 

"Yeah, I'm pretty damn happy to see him, too. I'm pretty damn happy to see all of you. I'm damn happy to be here at all." I stopped for a moment, trying not to cry. "I'm just  _ so _ damn happy," I mumbled.   

Sean jiggled the key in the door and pushed it open. There is nothing as reassuring as the snug warmth of home kissing your face after coming in from the cold.  As we stepped in, I turned to Glenda and whispered, "Thank you."    

\----------------------

"You don't have to tell us what happened until you're ready," Glenda said. "Know that your Uncle and I love you. We’ll give you as much space as you need."

She sent me off with some clean clothes. I shut the narrow bathroom door and flipped the lock.    

I took that bath right away. I left a pillar of sand on the floor where I took off my clothes. I threw them in the wastebasket next to the sink, ridding myself of the terrible reminder. 

I climbed into the old claw-foot tub. Extra hot. So hot it turned my pale skin angry red. I counted to fifty before I lowered my more tender parts down into the cauldron, then finally slid under the water. After shampooing my hair for the fourth time, I determined that it would be the next century before the last grains of sand were out of my scalp. There was so much sand in the bottom of the tub, I was concerned that I'd block the plumbing when I rinsed it down the drain.    

I took my time getting out, wrapping one of large cushy blue bath towels around me. The mirror was steamed over; I swiped the glass with a corner of the towel. Man, I looked like shit.    

I dressed in an old pair of my scrubby jeans that Glenda had given me along with my tatty oatmeal sweater. At least I knew my old clothes. I wandered cautiously out to the kitchen. Glenda waved for me to sit down.    

I smiled. A friendly cup of coffee waited for me on the table.   

I sat down and ate in silence as Glenda watched. I kept moving the napkin around on my lap and squirmed in my seat like an antsy 6-year-old.   

She served me leftover turkey she'd frozen and warmed up. Said she'd saved it from the holiday, hoping I would get to eat the dinner. I tried to muster more enthusiasm after she told me.    

The mashed potatoes were freezer burned. The gravy was a bit too salty. The turkey was dry. The cranberries were extra tart. And the coffee was strong. God, it tasted wonderful. I devoured it.    

"You want to go lie down for awhile?" she asked.

“No. I just need to sit a while, sort things out in my head some more.” I had enough of lying down to last the rest of my life. To tell the truth, I was afraid to close my eyes. Still I had to decide: What was I going to say to them? What should I reveal? Hopefully this timeline would start to spill out into my head sometime soon. 

“I think a bit of quiet would be a good idea," she said. She followed a step behind me like a mother bird watching over her hatchling until I told her I'd be fine. 

I started up the winding old stairway. The same staircase carved with roses and thorns. Mica... my roses. I ran my fingers in the grooves just as I had the first time I saw this miracle. 

I heard quiet feet behind me. Sean trying hard to be cautious. 

"I thought you'd give it away," he said quietly, grabbing my arm and pulling me up the stairs.

"Give what away?" I whispered back to him.

"All the trouble you went to to keep Sherlock and you a secret from Glenda? Shit, you almost gave it away…"

So Sherlock and I  _ were  _ together in this time. Made sense, that's why he jabbed me in the ribs in the car.

"Help me out here," I said. "I don't remember. A lot is a blank."

I decided the best way to get information was to play the temporary amnesia card, which wasn't far from the truth.

"Like what?" he asked.

"Like what did you tell him? He must be frantic. I’ve been missing for months."

He opened the door at the head of the stairs and pushed me through. It was the same room Sherlock and I had shared— where he watched me in the garden from the window. Where he made love to me on the window sill. 

"Sherlock was pretty busted up after you disappeared. The band members wondered where you were. I finally made some excuses. It was a fucking mess. Sherlock was beside himself worrying about you. Blamed himself, since he broke it off with you just before. I told him you went off to clear your head— sort of a mental vacation. In fact at first I thought that's exactly what you did. Then when you didn't come back for days, and we got that note from Moriarty..."

"Note?"

"Yeah, rubbing in how he had you. I thought Uncle Greg was gonna kill somebody. Seriously. Glenda was half hysterical. We ended up getting Victor to help us. He tracked Moriarty down to the cottage by the lake. But he was long gone. We tried to find out where he took you. I know it sounds weird, but the areas where you were came to Uncle Greg in a dream one night— said it was more like a memory. It wasn't far from where Moriarty buried him all those years ago. That's how we finally found you. We’d gone out there with Toby before. We would have kept trying, kept looking..."

I sat down on the bed and looked out the window. The shadows were getting longer.

"Sherlock didn't understand. I know it was a hard choice for you to make. But considering what happened with Moriarty, it was the right choice."

I looked at him, confused.

"Understand what?" I asked. “For some reason, I can’t remember much. I must have blocked out a lot.”

"No kidding? I’m not surprised. Well, you were keeping your relationship a secret. Man, you don't remember anything, do you? Sherlock thought you didn't want to tell everyone because you couldn't face your family about being gay." Sean said. "Like they'd have a problem with that. Sherlock had no idea..."

I didn't tell him, then. He'd never found out about me. Not like before. 

"He didn't know?"

"You were right to keep it from him. Glenda would never accept him. I don't know what crazy thing she'd do if she realized Sherlock knew. I think you were worried that she might try to make him immortal, too. Now that would be a fucking mess."

"It sure would," I coughed. 

"Damn right— not because of the immortal or the gay thing, but because of Moriarty."

Sherlock was safe. Best way to keep him that way was to keep away from me. 

"Thank God Sherlock never found out."

"Ha! That's ironic," he laughed. "The night before you disappeared you told him  _ something _ . Lucky for you and him, he didn't believe one word."

"Not surprised. I wouldn’t believe me." 

Sean laughed. "He said you told him you were an alien from galaxy far, far away."   

\--------------------

At 10:30 p.m. I sat down to my PC and did a search on time travel. I no longer had Sherlock by my side to help me research. I had to do this, and I kicked myself for not taking more initiative before this— maybe I could have prevented myself from getting all that sand in my hair.

I still felt like I had sand on me. God, you never knew the freedom of being able to reach in your pants and scratch your nuts until you can't do it for months. I reached in and gave the boys attention. After giving each of them equal time, I scratched my head just because I could. I had fingernails since I hadn't been able to bite them for weeks. 

Why wasn’t this timeline coming to me?

I rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands— something else I hadn't been able to do in a long time. I leaned back in the chair. I had so many questions. Most of which had to do with my missing memory of this time and how the last months fit together. I didn't want to gamble changing time again. But I wanted to be back where I belonged. With Sherlock. 

I had to know how Sherlock in this time fit in. Why had I tried to tell him the truth (or at least maybe what I thought was the truth) the night before I disappeared? I hoped upon hope he was my Sherlock. But that was impossible. If he was, he would have tried to find me.

I opened up Google Docs and typed out my most pressing questions:

  1. Why don't I remember this timeline like I did the first time with Sherlock?
  2. Could I possibly control the jump through time?
  3. Why would I tell Sherlock that I was an alien?
  4. Did Moriarty have the same powers as I do now?



I knew I wouldn't find the answer to my last two questions on the Internet. The first two, however, I could to a degree.

I started simple: Time travel and parallel universes. My brain couldn't handle too much at the moment. I skimmed first for credible information, bookmarking places I thought were best. I'd go back to them when my brain was up for a crash quantum physics lesson. I was shocked to find out that my password to my account at the university worked. 

Then I stumbled on an older interesting document that a physicist from Cambridge wrote in 1967. Mark Talbot. Most of his theories and formulas and ideas I struggled to understand, but one hypothesis he wrote was that a time traveler should not remember the previous timeline. Not unless that person was protected from it, like with some force field. Maybe Sherlock and I protected each other that first time. This time I didn't have his protection. Maybe this guy was just plain wrong, but some of his ideas made me wonder if this man knew because he’d done it himself.

Or maybe there was another reason I didn't remember. There was another time when I didn't remember… when this all started. The car accident. Maybe I didn't remember because of the trauma to my head. Moriarty crushed it. Then there was a third possibility. Maybe it was psychological. Maybe I didn't remember because what happened was just too horrible. Maybe my mind was protecting me from the truth. 

Then I saw the words "parallel universe" and a fourth possibility that never occurred to me seemed all the more likely. Maybe I wasn't changing time at all. There seemed to be different opinions on how parallel universes might happen. I wanted to know more about Talbot. I Googled him. No photos at first, but then I found an old one. 

No mistaking. Moriarty. 

I practically hyperventilated. He tormented me here. Maybe he was off in another universe tormenting me right now.

Fuck, my head hurt. I added that to my search, and I read on about memory loss and head injuries. 

The Internet is a time machine of a sort. I looked up, and it was 2:46 a.m. I'd collected some interesting information. I was more confused than when I started. I found no real answers. Instead, I had more questions. I shut down the computer and kicked off my slippers. I got up, walked over to bed and pulled back the covers and tried to go to sleep. Tomorrow, I’d find Sherlock.


	27. Things Eternal

I woke from a nightmare, finding myself wound up tight in the sheets. One of those bad dreams where your own cries wake you. Sean knocked at my door, asking if I was all right. I kicked the sheets, uncoiling my body, and told him I was fine.

"To see the world in a grain of sand," I said to myself. I knew what that meant now. William Blake was right.

I stretched my arms and legs spread eagle, then slapped my feet against the mattress. God, what freedom! I fluffed the pillow and smothered myself with it, then warmed my palms on the top of the quilt, rubbing them up and down, tracing the basket weave pattern. All the simple tactile messages I'd missed, I hoarded. The sun shining from the bay window and the welcoming wake-up call of the cold hardwood floor underfoot— each experience meant I was alive and moving. 

It is true. I appreciate life more, after all my agony.  _ " _ Joy and woe are woven fine / A clothing for the soul divine. _ " _

While the pads of my feet were having their own little party on the floor, I heard the timid knock again and knew Sean wouldn't leave.

When I opened the door to go downstairs, I freaked— there stood Sean with a dopey grin in pink bunny slippers, purple chenille bathrobe and orange polka dot flannels. 

"You look like hell," he told me. 

"Me?! I guess I didn't take you seriously enough when you told me you wanted to run away and join the circus," I laughed. "All you need is a red nose and a unicycle."

He cleared his throat, raising his right eyebrow. 

"I..." he began, bowing dramatically, "...wore this outlandish affair  _ you _ bought for me in  _ your _ honor." 

"But I don't think I expected you to wear them all at the same time," I suppressed a laugh.

"Yes you did! Don't you remember?! Besides it’s a celebration. You’re home!" 

"Yeah.. er, well.. ok... I guess," I stammered, then turned tail and started down the stairs. He did the brotherly love thing— he yanked my hair and pulled me back.

Next up, the other brotherly love thing—tackle him to the ground, but I pulled back when he pointed down at his feet and leaned back on his heels, backing off. 

"Hey, stop. See? Ah-h, the slippers are soft and squishy. You're the one who told me that! You told me, 'These are the best; they're soft and squishy and sure to make your toes curl.' And look!  I'm curling my toes right now in sheer contentment, but you can't see 'cause Mr. Bunny Wabbit's in the way."

I started back down the stairs. He followed behind me, saying, "Hop, hop, hop!"

"Back off, Sean! Shit, you're scaring me. You keep watching me like  _ I'm _ some magician's white rabbit. I'm not going to friggin' disappear!"

"Well, excuse me for caring!" 

"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I can’t remember. I'll be better after I've had my coffee and used the bathroom," I said, throwing up my arms. 

He had that damn pouty bottom lip quivering. Guilt. But he turned it off as soon at I turned away. I was glad I didn't take it back, especially after I heard him behind me in that lilting sing-song voice chanting,  _ "Bunny hop, bunny hop, bunny hop, hop..." _   


Well, if you can't beat ‘em, join 'em. I sang along with him. "The Bunny Hop" echoed down the hall all the way to the bathroom. At least he didn't hippity-hop in on my tail while I was taking a piss. 

After I dried my hands, humming, I inspected my fingernails, then opened the door and found him pacing back and forth like a fuzzy, garish bodyguard.

I decided not to say anything else smartass to him. Hell, he was just concerned about me. 

"Smells good. I'll have a cup of that," I said to Glenda with a yawn as Toby licked my hand.

At the table, Sean rubbed his chin and grinned at me. Glenda sat down, warming both hands around her coffee mug. She smiled from Sean to me. 

"That's coffee, ya know," Sean said to me. "It ain't tea leaves."

Maybe if I looked harder I  _ could _ see my future. Second thought, maybe I didn't want to look…

"Um, pass the cream and sugar."

Sean pushed the sugar bowl over to me. Glenda poured cream in my coffee. She even stirred it for me. Made me feel kinda goofy and safe with both of them hovering over me. 

Didn’t I like it black?

"Thanks," I said. Glenda leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. 

"Hey, he's blushing. That's a good sign, don't ya think, Glenda?" I could feel my cheeks getting hotter, so I took another gulp of coffee to hide my face. 

"What would you like for breakfast? I could make pancakes, waffles." She tilted her head to look at me. When that didn't work, she slipped her fingers under my chin, catching my eyes, "Or maybe a bowl of cereal?"

"Cereal would be good. But if you don't mind, I'd like to take it upstairs."

She sighed, then poured my cereal and set it down in front of me. I hated the disappointment behind her eyes and decided to compromise and eat my cereal at the table, but I took my second cup of coffee upstairs and went back to my room to research. 

Sean still followed me, but he got the message that I wanted to be alone when I shut the door gently in his face. 

I rubbed my eyes and swore there was sand behind them. Placing my coffee on my desk, I pushed my palms into my sockets until I thought I'd pushed them out the back of my head. I stretched out to turned on the laptop, then leaned back and took a sip of coffee. I waited for for it to load. 

God, I thought, coffee is almost as good as sex. I missed coffee. I missed the morning.

Almost as good as sex, but not quite. 

_ Sherlock's cock burns me; it's that bright moment of pleasure/pain as he forces hard into that last tiny space. My thoughts turn liquid, centering my groin.  He moves achingly slowly, fingers digging into my hip bones, mouth teasing my earlobes with nips and licks. His long fingers skitter past my bellybutton, down, down. Firm and sure, grasping my cock as he bites my shoulder and thrusts harder. My thighs shake and strain to get more of him… _

Stop daydreaming. Fuck! Now, I had a hard-on with my hand down my pants. This wasn't good. Even coffee was making me horny— must be fresh roasted.

I sighed and clicked on my bookmarks. 

_ Shit. _

How could that be? I scratched my nose. There was a folder titled “time travel.” I knew I was tired last night, but I didn't remember creating a folder.

I opened the folder. Inside were at least fifty links. 

Not mine.

_ The John in this time did the same thing as I did.  _ He'd researched the same subject. I checked  _ My Documents _ . He (I) had folders inside of folders of research. 

He’d used Word on this laptop, and I searched his documents. I'd been reading for almost two hours, and I’d lost my place three times. My God, the more I read, the more I realized I was over my head. He’d linked pages in the documents to his sources. Without a background in physics, I was lost. Some of it made sense, but most was too technical for me to even begin to understand. I'd found a NOVA site, which was a bit more my speed. Written in plain English so a novice (like me) could understand. It made me wonder, just how much  _ did _ my counterpart understand? I know his background was limited to biology for the most part. He must have been just as confused. 

What was left of my coffee was long cold, but I swallowed the last of it. Then I noticed something curious— I'd kept a journal. A  _ blog _ .

This was so fucking hard to decipher. Why would he keep a link to it for someone to find? Maybe I did want someone to find it. I wondered…Fuck! I needed the password. What would I use? I got it in two tries. Luckycharms. No.  _ Captaincrunch _ !

Shit, he  _ was _ me. Maybe he did want the other me to find it. Maybe that's why he left it in plain sight. Or maybe he wanted Sean or Glenda to find it. Or Sherlock. He would get the password in the first try. Shit. Sherlock! This was incredibly exciting. It was like eavesdropping on your alter ego. Me and not me.  _ Cool. _

\----------------------

_ 19, June 2015 _

Decided I should keep some kind of record of what has happened to me. Have been reading much on time travel. Since I got into this place (new reality???) I've been confused, yet I know what's gone on before which is pretty freaky to me. My family is much the same. Glenda is still uptight about mortals and can't get over Victor. His name was Peter in my universe. Lestrade (who keeps telling me to call him Uncle Greg) isn't around much. Sean is as kind and sweet as ever.

I tried hard to blend into this time and space. I think I've convinced them, but every so often I catch Glenda looking at me like she knows. Part of me wants to confide in her— in someone. But past experience tells me that's not such a good idea. Last time I confided in Sean, he blabbed to everyone. That was the last timeline. Now I'm here because he couldn't keep his mouth shut. Fucking Peter Deal, or should I say Victor Trevor. I can see why Glenda's not with him (at least the Peter Deal I knew in the last time line— who knows what this one's like). If he hadn't told Mycroft, then the community would never have found out, and Moriarty never would have found me either.

The band is the same. Same members. Same manager, Sherlock Holmes. What is it with him?

\----------------------

Damn! He was like me. Traveling in time! This was incredible. I wondered. Now I was sure. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that the John in this time line had the same ability and used it... and some of his experiences sounded similar to mine— like the offhand comments about Peter, Mycroft and the Community. Sounded as if Sean was my alter ego's confidant. 

\----------------------

I scrolled down to the next entry. 

\----------------------

_ 06 July 2015 _

Spent the day at the lake with Anderson, Mary and Sherlock. Sunburned my back so bad I can't sleep. Sheets hurt like a bitch even when I lie perfectly still. 

Fuck.

Wish I would have learned to fall asleep on my stomach (at least in one timeline LOL).

It's all Mary's fault. She refused to rub sunblock on my back after Sherlock offered to do it. Kept giggling and saying, 'Make him happy; let Sherlock do it.' Some best friend she is... I almost let him do it, then Anderson made a smartass remark about me getting a hard-on. Shit.

Then to make it all worse, Sherlock had to go and get close to me in the water. Why doesn't Sherlock just drop it? I'm not interested. I suppose I  _ should _ be flattered. The man is most irritating, yet has uncanny eyes and cheekbones.

The guy never gives up. Even after I pushed him away in the water, he still kept offering to rub sunblock on my back when we went back to the beach.

 

_ 11 July 2015 _

Is it possible I'm in an alternate universe? I think so. I've always had a problem believing I could change time. All the paradoxes and such. The more I've read on the Internet and at the university makes me believe I've never changed time at all— just moved from one parallel universe to another. That way there are no temporal paradoxes. A person could go back in time and change history, killing their grandfather, and still exist because by doing so they've created an alternate universe. No more paradoxes!

Shit, that means I've left some other version of me to deal with the messes I left in the other times. Not a comforting thought. I wonder if Sean or others like me could alter time too? It would make sense.

\----------------------

If he's right, then we must have changed places. And if that he was in the time I came from—he'd be with Sherlock... _ With my Sherlock.   _

\----------------------

_ 17 July 2015 _

Moriarty is in town again. He's bad news in any universe. Uncle Greg doesn't want Sean and I to leave the house. The band went to play at  _ The Falls  _ last night. When we got home, I thought Lestrade was going to kill us both. Glenda said she'd lock us in our rooms if she had to.

Christ, you'd think I was in high school again.

Seems I can't escape Moriarty no matter what I do. I have no interest in becoming his personal guinea pig again, so maybe I better listen to them and stick close to home. 

Another note: Sherlock seems to want to be in a relationship. With me. He’s under the impression that I like him. I said I’m not gay and he laughed in my face. Says I am. He kissed me backstage tonight and asked me if I liked it. I think I did. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

 

_ 19 July 2015 _

I've been wondering if there are some things you just can't change even if you're in an alternate universe. Maybe there are some events that aren't solid, and others that can never be altered. Maybe it's inevitable that Moriarty finds me. 

I broke up with Sherlock, not that we were actually together. It was just a kiss.

 

_ 21 July 2015 _

Moriarty's gone. Left on a jet to the other side of the country. We are released from prison.

Thinking I should get my own place. Or maybe switch universes (just kidding). Don't think switching universes again would be a good idea. Not until I understand more. Maybe not ever. I don't really want to alter time or switch universes. It takes so much out of me. And what if I'm not really changing things? At least not in the big picture… Maybe Sherlock was inevitable too. 

\----------------------

I was beginning to agree with what this John was thinking. Maybe there are some things which can never be changed. Still, I liked to believe in the whole idea of free will. All this reminded me of the conversations Sherlock and I had even before we knew time could be altered…

God, I was just running William Blake through my brain when I woke up. Now it was even more poignant:  _ "He who doubts from what he sees/ Will ne'er believe, do what you please..."    
_

Sherlock believed with everything in him that he had the power to affect his future. I wanted more than anything to believe the same. Still, some things are meant to happen. Like Sherlock and I. 

As I read on, I was becoming convinced of it.

\----------------------

_ 28 July 2015 _

The band was really on tonight. Had the crowd insanely dancing and screaming. Nothing better than the amps' vibration and enthusiasm. I thought Smith was going to fuck Sean on stage. Sean told me he thinks he might be gay. Duh?!

I am definitely bisexual. I can’t forget Sherlock and that kiss.

 

_ 12 August 2015 _

Went to the afterparty last night. Think I may have had too much to drink. Sherlock kissed me again, and I kissed him back. I let him grope me too. Actually, it ended up being a mutual grope fest. The problem is that Anderson walked in on us. Called into work sick today. Don't want to hear Anderson's taunting.

 

_ 12 August 2015 _

Sherlock called. Wants me to come over. Told him I'm sick, and that's why I'm at home. He said he thought maybe I was avoiding Anderson. And him. That I’m not really sick. 

Part of me wants to go over to his place. But no good would come out of this. I've heard the lecture from Glenda and Uncle Greg too many times. No good comes out of a relationship with a mortal. Trouble is, where's a guy supposed to find a hot immortal piece of ass? Not like it's so easy to find. Not like I can meet someone on the Internet. And Sherlock is always there. I feel this odd attraction. I think maybe my brain got jumbled this last time when I switched. 

Still no word about where Moriarty is or what he's up to…

 

_ 28 September 2015 _

Avoiding Sherlock is becoming more and more difficult. The guy never gives up. At least when I told him not to call anymore, he listened to that. He texts me instead. Persistent. He hangs out at the flower shop and comes every night to whatever bar we happen to be playing at. I tried being rude, but it didn't work. 

He’s talked the band members into thinking he’d be a good manager. He’s probably right.

Kissing him back and feeling him up was either the biggest mistake of my life or the best idea I ever had.

 

_ 15, November 2015 _

A lot has changed. Went to party at Anderson's last week. Sherlock entrapped me on the tire swing. Wouldn't let me off. Not until I kissed him again. Did it just so he'd leave me alone.

Actually, that's a big lie. I wanted to kiss him. I've wanted to since he kissed me the last time. I'm tired of being horny 24-7. I went home with him. Guess who's not a virgin anymore ;)

He’s also our new manager. He’s already got us loads of new gigs. Had to tell Uncle Greg and Glenda I spent the weekend with some girl. They were pissed, but I told them she wasn't from around here. That made Glenda a little happier.

I wonder... is it possible to get back to the previous timeline once you've left it? Just wondering because if the John from this timeline comes back, he might not be so happy I'm sleeping with Sherlock. Not unless I am him, in which case, I'm okay with it. I think…

 

_ 01 January 2016 _

I am most certainly and possibly in love. I've come to the conclusion that I probably would fall for him in any plane of reality…

 

_ 15 February 2016 _

Big trouble. Sherlock wants me to meet his parents. He thinks I should come out of the closet. The shitty part is that Sherlock would understand if I told him the real truth. He'd probably give up his mortality like Victor did for Glenda. I've seen what it did to Peter in both realities. NO way I want that for Sherlock. Now I know why Glenda was so adamant about not getting involved with mortals. 

I think I should break up with him, but I’m too selfish for that.

 

_ 16 February 2016 _

Tried to break up with Sherlock. I couldn't do it. I started to tell him, next thing I knew he had my pants off. Afterward, I knew I couldn't do it. Instead, I tried to explain to him why no one could know about the two of us. I let him believe that my family would never accept me being gay.

He thinks I should tell them. Says keeping it a secret is a big mistake.

(Found out today that I can move objects with my mind— _ fucking cool _ )

 

_ 29 March 2016 _

Found letters in Lestrade's room. He's been keeping deeper and darker secrets than mine. For example: What I am. What we are. 

I feel like I've just finished watching a marathon of  _ The Outer Limits _ . Once Glenda told me we were from another planet, and I thought she was joking. This explains loads. Why some mortals can become like us… where Mica came from, and our interdependence with Mica.

We left our universe and came here. And we did it the same way I got here— by moving from one universe to another. In some plane of reality, everyone is like me...But somehow we lost the ability. Or maybe coming to this time altered us so we could not leave. Until now. Until me. 

It's all in that flower. In Mica. It's the same here  _ and _ there (wherever the heck that is). I think Uncle Greg left the letters out for me to find. I didn't realize how much danger I was in until now— the horrendous things Moriarty did to him!

 

_ 08 May 2016 _

Moriarty is in town again. Last night Sean got a call from Uncle Greg when we were playing at this new club Sherlock got us the gig for. After, I told Sherlock I couldn't see him for awhile. He got really pissed off. Said I was denying what I was. I left with Sean and went straight home. Sherlock texted me later that night. He told me I had to make up my mind. Either I was with him and gay or without him. I remembered what Uncle Greg had said how mortals could be used against us. I’m more concerned Moriarty might hurt Sherlock.

I texted back, 'I guess I'm without you then.' He didn’t text back. I realized tonight how much I really do love him. Enough to give him up to keep him safe.

 

_ 09 May 2016 _

Moriarty confronted me at work today in the back greenhouse. The sleaze pushed himself against me and said he was going to get what I had. Went home sick.

 

_ 10 May 2016 _

Sherlock confronted me outside of the flower shop today. Am worried that Moriarty might have been following me and seen us together. Decided I owed Sherlock the truth. He has to understand he might be in danger too.

 

_ 11 May 2016 _

Sherlock didn't believe me. Said if I wanted to get rid of him, I could do it without making up some big, crazy lie. Said I could have made up a better one than that. I almost slammed the car door on my hand just to prove to him I was an immortal alien life form. I said fuck it. Then said lots of hurtful things to him to make him hate me. With the scene I made, no way Moriarty would trouble him.

Sherlock believes I hate him. It has to stay that way. 

\----------------------

Last entry. I closed my eyes to think. 

It was all there. Hadn't Glenda told me I was from the Pleiades? Sherlock was there when she told me…

I had a bad feeling about all this— I knew Moriarty better than the other John. Moriarty would only want to go back if he thought there was something he wanted. Like power, or to fuck with the person he most hated. That would be me.

I had to stop him. 

I was racking my brain trying to think of what to do when Mary called.

\----------------------

I hesitated to go to the New Year's Eve party at Mary’s. I did want to see Sherlock, just not at a party with everyone slobbering drunk. I also wanted to see Mary. I needed to talk to her.

When I got into her car, I was so fucking nervous she thought I was having a breakdown. Fucking bad time to have an anxiety attack. By the time we were half way down the driveway, I was hyperventilating. It made Sean's excuse about me more credible— that I was gone those months because I needed a  _ mental vacation _ . 

Nice way to put I wigged out.

"You want to stay here?" she finally asked, stopping the car. "I mean, we don't have to go out in public. If you'd like, I could go buy some champagne. We could toast the new year in together at my place."

"No," I said, putting my head between my legs. "I need to do this."

"Count to twenty backward," she said, as she turned out of our driveway. It worked. That and the relaxation technique Sherlock taught me. I imagined green grass waving, barn swallows swooping over a lazy creek and the sweet smell of honeysuckle.

"Listen, I know you're nervous about seeing Sherlock again."

There went my happy country paradise…

"You know about Sherlock? Christ!" 

This wasn't good. I thought I was going to hyperventilate again.

"Of course I know. You're as easy to read as a Dr. Seuss book. Besides, Sherlock confirmed it. Don't be mad at him for telling me. I sort of tricked him into it." She sighed, then reached over and squeezed my knee.

"Hey big guy, just admit it— you love him."

"I don't believe this."

No way Sherlock could be kept a secret. What was I doing coming to the party? I wanted to connect with Sherlock again even after all the other John had sacrificed to keep him safe?

"You're going to be fine. Let him come to you. He always does. Then, tell him you're sorry and everything will be the way it was before."

"But it won't be," I whispered. 

I'd go to Mary’s party. See this Sherlock. He had to understand it was over. He wasn't my Sherlock. He belonged to the John in the other time— the one I traded lives with. If by some chance I could trade places with the other John, I was going to do it. Then that John could make the choice to go back to Sherlock, but I wasn't going to make that choice.

As soon as I walked into the room and saw him, I knew it was going to be hard.

Those sad green eyes of his followed me around the room. Smith tackled me, and I landed half on the sofa and half on the coffee table. Sherlock pulled me up by the elbow.

"Take it easy," he said to Smith. 

"I'm fine," I said, pulling away from Sherlock.

"Yeah, he's fine. See?" Smith said, giving me a one-two punch in the ribs. "But are you fine enough to play with us Wednesday night? What do you say? Please?! Come on!"

"Okay, okay, I'll be there," I said. "But only if you stop it. I'm tender, you know."

I stepped backward on top of Sherlock's foot, and he handed me a beer.

"You look like shit for someone who's been on a mental vacation for over six months," he said. “Maybe there something essential missing in your life. Something or _ someone  _ you missed?”

“Possibly,” I said. What was I doing?  _ John, get that stupid grin off your face. Stop looking into Sherlock's eyes. God, he's twitching his nose.  _

I had wondered— if you have sex with your partner in an alternate universe, would that be considered cheating? Now  _ that _ was a _ real  _ temporal paradox.

"Thanks," I said, as I twisted off the top. "You look great."

Had to get away from him fast... 

I started walking toward the hallway, and he followed me.  _ Shit.  _

I brushed past Mary as she lolled against the wall talking to her many admirers. I watched her drag her red enameled fingernails up her leg, hiking that skirt up a bit higher. Each male panted for more. Mary was a walking libidinous bug zapper. Anderson buzzed dangerously closer, a more interesting specimen of horny insect. Looked like she was going to zap him with her ‘come fuck me' eyes.

I turned my head to say something to her, and she winked at me. 

"Um-m, I have to use the bathroom," I said. "Be right back."

When I came out, Sherlock was gone. So was Mary. She was seated on Anderson's lap, sucking his face in the corner. I couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed. Mary was with Anderson again, and where the fuck had Sherlock gone? I sat down on the sofa and watched reruns of the  _ Twilight Zone _ while Jimbo sat next to me and told me in detail about his infected finger. I recalled mine. It seemed like forever ago. Three episodes of sci-fi and twenty-thousand words on pus.

I kept looking at the door, wondering where Sherlock went. 

Mary finally took pity on me and quit tormenting Anderson long enough to get me another beer, rescuing me from Jimbo. She sat on the other side of me and animatedly told me about her summer romances. How many different places she did it (' _ John, did you know canoes can be amazingly stable?' _ ), what position (' _ Bark like a dog for me, honey' _ ) and with whom (' _ I think that was with Jeffrey, or was it Jeremy?' _ ).

I know I was getting one of those glazed-over looks round about the time she got to telling me all about the lime vodka shooter contest. I casually looked to the door as another guest arrived fashionably late.

"Hey you!?" she said to me, waving her hands frantically in front of my face. "If you want to know, he went to the store to buy more beer, but that's right,  _ you _ don't  _ care _ ... so that wouldn't be  _ you _ who keeps looking at the door every time someone comes in. And, oh yeah, you probably could  _ give a shit _ where  _ he _ is— so forget I told you."

" _ I _ didn't ask."

"Hm-m-m, you never do anything the easy way, do you John?"

"Oh, fucking hell. I’m not going to spread my legs for any handsome sailor like you do."

"If you don't mind, I'm going to go find Anderson. It's getting close to midnight— time to 'spread my legs' ya know! At least one of us will get lucky tonight..." 

"A kiss?" I hollered across the room. "Is that what you call it now?" 

She got up and wiggled her ass across the room. Every guy in the room watched. Bitch.

I decided to escape the traditional ringing in of the New Year, and I got my coat. 

I found myself walking out the back door and wandering out to the river. I shoved my hands deep in my pockets. The air had that same crisp, icy feel— I just had to go out there and see if the swing and tree were there. Were they a memory, or just a dream buried in the sand? 

I stopped. The tire swing was up ahead. 

It was much the same... tonight the leaves were stiff and frozen from winter, not dry and brittle. The water was still black, but the river's edge was crusted with ice and littered with leaves and twigs. Half-melted drifts of snow littered the yard. I leaned against the old oak and watched a lone Butterfinger wrapper float by. I reached out and pushed the swing. It flew back and hit me hard with a thick, hollow thud— I noticed a slug of ice in the well of the tire where the snow had thawed and frozen; I turned it upside down and knocked it out.

My hands were cold, and I cupped them, huffing into them for warmth. Giving up, I shoved them back into my pockets and looked toward the house, half expecting to see Sherlock. After all, isn't that what I wanted when I wandered out here? 

Fuck it, I thought, as I took my icy hands back out of the flannel lining and jumped on the swing.

Amazing how alert you become after sitting your ass on a cold tire. The night was so still I had no trouble hearing him come up behind me. 

I pretended he wasn't there and swung out over the river, looking down into the water. The same dark water stared back. I wondered what time it was. When I swung back, Sherlock stopped the swing and spun me around to face him.

"Thought you'd be out here," he said, planting his foot inside the tire and rocking it back and forth. 

"You left," I said.

"You left first," he came back. 

I caught the sting of his double meaning and started to wiggle off the swing, but he stopped me. With one leap, he was on top of me, straddling my legs, the rope between us. Our eyes locked. He moved his warm gloved hands tight over mine. 

"That should keep you from going anywhere," he said, deliberately shifting his weight forward. 

"You're squishing me." He gave me that lopsided grin and rested his forehead on the rope. He smelled like potato chips.

"You never complained before..." he said, looking up at his wrist. "Last time I followed you out here, I ended up taking you home. It's almost twelve, Cinderella."

We heard the countdown from the crowd in the house: "Ten... nine... eight..."

This wasn't what I'd planned. But god, he looked like my Sherlock…

"seven... six... five..." 

I couldn't take my eyes off his mouth.

He sounded like my Sherlock.

"four... three... two..." 

I slowly tilted my head, edging closer. Potato chips. And cinnamon.

He smelled like my Sherlock.

"One.."

The rope creaked as his lips brushed mine. His hands squeezed mine tighter. My lips slowly parted as his tongue pushed through them.

He tasted like my Sherlock.

I kept reminding myself— this isn't my Sherlock, even if those long fingers of his kneading the back of my neck felt like his. 

"Happy New Year," he whispered into my mouth, and I all could do in return was moan. 

And that was how I let myself get carried away.


	28. Going, Going, Gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, you get some long-awaited answers as to how John moves from one universe to another.

We were halfway to Sherlock's house with his hand tugging on my zipper before I realized what was happening. Suddenly, I felt my jeans go z-z-zip and a cool breeze. I almost said stop, but my brain was wavering between ' _What the hell am I doing? I'm supposed to be backing off,'_ and ' _What the hell are you waiting for? Fuck me so hard I can't stand for a week.'_

His hand began creeping down my boxers, his skilled fingers arcing in and around when I blurted out "I'm not who you think I am."

He rolled his eyes at me and looked back at the road, but he continued with his long roving fingers, teasing me with seemingly accidental nicks.

"You aren't going to start with that 'I'm an alien' again? Because that can really spoil the mood." I jerked forward after another of Sherlock's fingers brushed like a feather against my cock. He looked at me innocently. Accidental? Hardly. Even in this reality, Sherlock was tuned in to my sexual tension with perfect pitch.

His next move wasn't as subtle: the edge of his fingernail circling the head of my dick. My half-erect cock jumped to full attention in his hand. "Oh Christ, oh fuck," I cursed.

"Mmm. Encouraging," he said, turning into his driveway with his free hand.

"M-maybe this isn't such a good idea." I thought I was going to cry, it felt so good. I bit my tongue.

He put the car in park and turned to me. "A little late to change your mind. But if you must."

I squirmed around in the seat as his thumb boldly played with the head of my cock, slathering pre-come around. "Oh God..." I moaned, sinking down in the seat.

"I think we better take this inside. I don't need my neighbors to hate me any more than they already do."

No shit. Wasn't _he_ the sensible one?  He gave me a squeeze, and I grabbed the door handle tight. He took his hand out of my pants, and I tried to fasten them, but there was more there than before and my damn hands kept trembling. How come Sherlock could unfasten my jeans with one hand, and I couldn't manage with two? I finally gave up, took a deep breath and got out of his car, pulling my Nirvana t-shirt down to hide my crotch.

As I followed behind him, I kept repeating to myself that I couldn't let this go any further. I came here to talk to him, to explain. I _had_ to talk to Sherlock. _Keep it together, Watson._

I lagged behind as he walked briskly to the door. I ran my hands through my hair. Fuck, he was in such a hurry, to get inside. I needed time to figure out what I was going to say, but I was nervous I'd lose my resolve if this went on too long. He fumbled and dropped his keys twice. Probably just as nervous as me, thinking if he slowed down I would change my mind and say those four dirty words: “we need to talk.”

My foot hit the door jamb. I tried to say something but my tongue was still numb. I licked my lips. The instant he saw me lick my lips, he grabbed my shirt. One sharp tug and my chest was crushed against his. My mouth was dry (which Sherlock tried to remedy with his clever tongue). Now _he_ was biting down on my tongue. I never had the chance to whimper no. Instead, he pushed me against the door, one hand behind me deftly throwing the lock while his other hand accomplished its mission, releasing my cock from my half-open jeans.

I could no longer resist and ground my cock into his hand; I could feel every long, tapered finger around me. I kept my eyes open and watched his flutter shut, watched him kiss and grope me against the door, transfixed. It felt so good, so good.

He came up for air, opening his eyes. God, they were beautiful, sea green with pupils blown wide in passion. All I could think of, all I could remember, were those months without him, believing I'd never see his nose twitch or eyes crinkle just as they were right now. My heart missed him— my heart missed _my_ Sherlock. And I was tempted to convince myself this _was_ my Sherlock, but I knew he wasn't.

I bent in for another kiss, and I promised myself just one more taste. As I did, he said, "I love you," making my heart twist even more as he waited for me to say it back, but I couldn't.

"Maybe I deserve that," he said as rested his chin on my shoulder.

My heart was pounding so hard, I thought he could hear it as he waited to hear those words in return. Each tug of my cock became more urgent. 

My silence hurt him, but when I tried to kiss his cheek to make the hurt go away, he turned his head. Then his hand stopped.

"Ultimatums do that," he said, kissing the corner of my mouth, "they come back and bite you."

He stopped seducing me and hugged me tight instead.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into my ear. "Sorry that I tried to make you choose between your family and myself. It was selfish of me to force you. I wanted all of you. Every part, the private and the public. But this time without you made me realize that it doesn't matter. We can stay locked in the closet together and never let the world see us, no one need know that you're gay just as long as you stay with me, just as long as you love me."

God, he was so much like my Sherlock. Sacrificing himself for me.

"Forgive me for making you choose. I won't do it again. And if you don't feel right being here, I'll take you home, but I would like you to stay. I want you to stay." 

Truthful, loyal. Shit. He's Sherlock through and through. He patiently waited for me to answer, his lips pressed to my ear.

"I don't want you to take me home," I said honestly. "But..."

He flinched at my last word.

What would the other John do right now? I wish I knew. I hoped he would tell him the truth. I had to make him believe. John had a reason to tell Sherlock what he was the night before Moriarty appeared and turned our lives into a nightmare. He loved Sherlock, and as I looked over at him I knew I loved this Sherlock, too. I loved him enough to not just fuck him and let him think I was the same person.

I took a deep breath, and Sherlock gave me space.

I surveyed the room. A few things were different, living room furniture no longer facing the picture window, an added oak entertainment center and saltwater fish aquarium, but most of the furniture looked the same with his human skull still on the mantel. I scratched the top of my legs. Nervous, nervous, nervous and horny. I wondered what my Sherlock was doing with the other John at this very moment.

He cleared his throat and threw himself down on the couch, all arms and legs. He was so much like my Sherlock it hurt. I took a seat next to him. "Might as well sit down and be comfortable while I’m shooting myself in the foot," I said.

“That doesn’t sound fucking promising…” This Sherlock swore. I took a seat, and he stood up again, then plopped down closer to me. Too close. I scooted over and pressed myself against the arm of the couch.The best way to keep my resolve was to keep my distance. His answer was to spread himself over the couch with his bare feet in my lap.

"There’s something else! I knew it!” he said, flinging his arms in the air. Just as dramatic as my Sherlock, apparently. “You disappeared for months. No one would tell me where you were. Sean was scared. I knew something was wrong. Look at you. You aren’t acting yourself. Your mannerisms are different. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone had changed places with you!"

“Funny you should say that.”

“You were so depressed before you left. I worried that you might have done something to yourself.”

Done something to myself. He thought I was depressed, suicidal. He believed that was why I was changed.

"I’m not self-destructive— I'm indestructible. Like the rock of ages. I'm not out looking to end it all. In fact, I have a huge self-preservation switch in my brain. Lately, though, I think it’s malfunctioning. It _should_ trip instinctively. Seems like by now fight or flight should be hardwired. Fucking faulty wiring."

"John, you have always been a puzzle to me, but this is not a puzzle! This is nonsensical babble."

I stabbed myself through my hand with a knife to prove my point before, maybe that fork over on the counter would work as well. "Sorry. My brain's a bit confused. Switching parallel universes can be a bitch. Maybe it's some kind of interstellar jet lag." God, I knew I must have sounded insane to him. The rage and indignation on his face changed to confusion and shock as I wiped my tears and looked into his eyes. "I _am_ from another universe. An alien from another universe. Well, actually, my ancestors were aliens. I think we’ve assimilated into humanity fairly well.”

“Delusional. Paranoid schizophrenia. Onset late twenties.”

"I know I sound crazy. I’m not. Hell, don’t look at me like you think I need to be put in a straitjacket. I switched timelines with the other John, alright?  I'm in this time trying to decide what the fuck to do next. Do you have anything to drink? I think a shot of something hard would help me think."

I stood up and walked out to the kitchen, opening the cupboard under the sink where I knew Sherlock kept his stash. _Bingo,_ Jim Beam _._

"Listen, you're either trying to get rid of me or you're schizophrenic. If you want to get rid of me, just tell me. If you’re schizophrenic, there’s medication. I hear it works rather well. I also know a good psychiatrist."

"I’ve tried him before in another time. I don’t think I’ll go back. There's a third option," I offered, dragging the chair from the counter to reach the cupboard above the fridge.

"That you _are_ really from another planet." I could practically hear his eyes roll in response.

"Yes..." I climbed up on the chair. _Now where were his shot glasses, in this mess?_ I looked down. _Shit, jeans still undone._ I reached in the cupboard, pulling out two glasses. _Oh, well._ "Hm-m, dusty," I said, blowing inside one of them.

I jumped down from the chair and looked at Sherlock, then hiked up my pants.

"John. You are not an alien. An alien would not worry about dusty glasses."

"You and that enormous brain think that aliens aren't bothered by dust?" I said. "I'll prove it to you. I can move things with my mind."

I unscrewed the whiskey then set it down on counter and finished wiping the glasses out with my t-shirt.

"That's not sanitary," he said.

“Sherlock, you do experiments with body parts in your sink, don’t tell me I’m not being sanitary.”

I poured two shots, waltzed out to the living room and set them on the table.

"Did John know where you kept your liquor?"

"Why are you using third person references? You are not studying to become a nurse!"

" _Did he_?"

" _He_ must or _you_ wouldn't have known where to look."

I tried to look cool as I threw back my Jim Beam, but I never was suave about drinking. Fuck, that burned. As I choked and turned red, Sherlock elegantly downed his and sat back watching me, rolling the glass between his thumb and those sexy tapered fingers. He didn't have to act so amused and look so hot.

"If you're _not_ John, you are his perfect twin down to the freckles on your arms. Not even identical twins have identical freckles."

"I didn't say I wasn't _like_ him— I said I _am_ him. I am all the John Watsons. I knew where you kept your glasses. Did John know that? And did he know you stash gay porn magazines in a cardboard box at the bottom of your linen cabinet? I know, and I know because I lived here in another time."

Sherlock fidgeted in his seat. Good, he was taking note. Deducing.

"I came from a parallel universe where you were my best friend. We went to the same elementary. I am an immortal alien. I can move things with my mind... I'm serious," I coughed. "Set down your glass."

He frowned skeptically.

"Go on, set it down," I coaxed. Sherlock gave me a doubtful shrug before he smacked the shot glass upside down on the coffee table.

I was amazed how easy it was. As if an invisible hand was guiding it, the glass tipped over slowly. The breath I’d been holding released in a hiss as the glass rolled on the table. _Wow. What a rush._

Sherlock eyed me. "That was excellent. How'd you do it?"

"I told you— I'm an alien. I have acute mental powers, along with other abilities."

"Right," he said, raising his right eyebrow. "How'd you _really_ do it?"

"I _told_ you."

He clasped his hands together under his chin with eyes drilling into me. "Then test those 'acute mental powers' and move something befitting of your talents. My bookcase."

"I don't know," I frowned. "I've never tried to move anything that large."

"What difference does the size make?!"

"Size doesn't matter?! In whose universe?!" I said. God, he was cute, blushing like that. I smiled at him. Okay, maybe I could move the entertainment center. Just for Sherlock. Hey, I wasn't Luke Skywalker, but I'd give it a shot.

I thought he was going to shit himself when the whole thing slowly tipped.

Books slipped out to the floor. His Italian glass paperweight collection rolled off the shelves, banging to the floor like huge marbles. I barely caught his skull, snatching it out the air before it hit the floor as my other hand kept the bookcase half up.

"I didn't think it'd work," I said. “I saved your friend.”

“How?”

His stare intensified as the bookcase shifted back, and I set his skull back on the shelf. When I turned around, Sherlock hadn't budged. He was staring through me, pale and lifeless, like the spirit had been sucked out of him.

"If you’re still not convinced, you could get your gun.” As I turned around and stepped toward Sherlock, I remembered my jeans were half down. As I yanked them up and tugged on my zipper, I felt the ball of my left foot slip on one of the glass paperweights. For the second time that night, I fell head first into a coffee table.

Sprawled half under the coffee table, I laid perfectly still, too embarrassed to show my face, thinking _some superhuman I am, I can't even traverse a room_. I groaned as Sherlock knelt down next to me. As he wiped the blood off my forehead with the corner of his shirt, he revealed a neat scar.

"Just _who_ are you, _exactly_?" he asked. “From the beginning.”

\------------------

I told him everything. I told him who and what I was and where I came from, as much as I could fathom. I told him about Moriarty, about my Sherlock. About being buried alive and how having my own Mind Palace saved me. I also told him that even if he looked, smelled and tasted like my Sherlock, I still couldn't sleep with him.

He believed me. He believed all of it. I almost cried for joy. And as we got into his car to take me home, he asked me if I was sure I didn't want to stay. I guess he believed everything _except_ that I didn't want him (with good reason). I told him no, I wasn't sure, but he should take me home anyway.

The last thing he asked me as I got out the door was what I was going to do. I told him I didn't know.

I walked in the door of the old farm house and looked at the old Grandfather clock— it was past four in the morning. Part of me wanted to sit at the old grand piano and play, just lose myself for a while in melody, but instead I went up the stairs in a daze to my room. I stripped and spread out on the bed, too mentally wrung out to even try to beat off properly.

The last time I looked at the clock it was 4:57.

\------------------

The next morning I wasn't awake long before Sherlock texted. He wondered if I needed to come over. It wasn't some pick up; it was genuine concern on his part. Sherlock meant well, but I couldn't go. As much as I wanted and needed someone to talk to, I knew what would end up happening if I was alone with him for too long. I also didn’t want to put him in danger.

I knew I had to get back to my Sherlock, and I was willing to bet that the other John was looking for a way back to his Sherlock, too. But how?

Later in the afternoon, he called. He insisted we meet, go somewhere to talk, but he stressed that it was important he talk to me. Of course he’d get his way. He always does. I told him I'd borrow my brother's car and meet him.

\------------------

We met at Denny's on Michigan Avenue. The place was shiny and silver with flashing neon and glittering red vinyl— one big nostalgic faux 1950s drive-in. An old Sinclair gas station sign on the front wall greeted me along with the rather oily waitress in a black skirt, flats and a stained white blouse. I nodded toward the table where Sherlock was seated, reading the menu in the back corner booth. An old photo of Bill Haley and the Comets was screwed to the wall behind Sherlock's head. As I got closer, I was surprised to see it was a genuine autographed photograph. I picked up my menu and poked my head over the top, watching Sherlock as he nervously sat rubbing his thumb on the handle of a white coffee mug.

"I couldn't sleep last night, not that I ever do," he began, turning my cup over for the waitress to fill.

The sparkling vinyl seat burped as I scooted around to sit closer.

"I replayed everything you said to me the weeks before you disappeared.”

“Not me.”

“No. My John. I realize now the importance of all my John said." His mouth snapped shut as he  looked up at the waitress, waiting for her to finish taking our order so he could continue. I asked her for more coffee and a ham and cheese omelet. Sherlock went for pancakes with whip cream.

I swatted the sugar envelopes back and forth against the palm of my hand before ripping them all open with my teeth and dumping them into Sherlock’s coffee as his knee brushed mine under the table.

"Three sugars. You _do_ know me.” Pain crossed his face, and he picked up his straw off the table and twisted it in his hand. Leaning back onto the booth’s seat, he tapped his fingers on the table, looking over my shoulder, deciding what to say next. "It's about the night he told me the truth,” he said finally. “When I became so angry with him for not coming out, I didn’t realize that he wasn’t rejecting me. How could I have misread him so thoroughly?”

“When emotions get in the way, it confuses things.”

Although he didn’t seem convinced, he nodded. “My John told me that I was all that kept him here.”

“I’m sorry. But I need to go back.”

“Yes. But you don’t know how. I do. He told me that night. I actually contemplated not telling you to keep you with me.”

“But you're telling me.”

“I guess I’m not as selfish a bastard as I thought I was.”

“Thank you.” I placed my hand over his.

“You must sustain a heightened emotional state while in physical contact with the sand. Not just any sand: the white sand like that on Lake Michigan’s shores. He was so intent to get it, said only that worked. He called it a part of the catalyst. You said it happened to you by chance. It was not that way for my John. It was planned. Although I am not so sure about the last time with Moriarty."     

"He said he need to be highly excited or agitated?"      

"His exact words were 'a prolonged heightened emotional state.'"       

"Like sex..." I said, half to myself, "or watching Moriarty buried alive."       

"He said the first couple times it happened he was at the lake cottage, then he made it happen."      

"He made it happen? How? I couldn't do it, and I was _buried_ in sand."       

“There may be other factors he did not understand. The right chemical balance in your brain. Endorphins, dopamine and serotonin in some combination.”

“I think you might be correct. Did John ever mention Mica? Or a rose, thorns, anything like that?"

"Not that night," he said, swirling a fork full of pancake in syrup. "But he did tell me once that Glenda always cut roses from their garden and brought them to the cottage."    

"I think I know how he triggered it."      

"What's the rose have to do with it?"

"It's another part of the catalyst. Like a drug," I said, feeling my cheeks burn just thinking about it, but I did my best to explain how it worked to him, how it changed me.      

"It happened to you by chance then," he said.     

"It's only happened to me twice. Second time I told you about, we were burying Moriarty then I switched. First time Sherlock was with me when it happened, and he came with me. At first, I thought he could do it too, or maybe it was us together, but now after what you've told me, I think I just brought him along with me."       

"He came with you? Fascinating! Oh! Of course! sex on the beach. He really did come with you," he smirked. "If you need help recreating that moment, I'll make the sacrifice."       

"Thanks for the offer, but the point is to _not_ take you with me," I said.      

"John, what if you do this and nothing changes for me? What if no version of John ever comes back? There is no way to calculate the chances that it’s my John, but I would say that the odds aren’t good. And the last John who was here, he wasn’t _my_ John. Not the one I fell in love with."

"I’ve thought about what happens to the version of me I leave behind— do they remember the remnants of me, my past lives I've been through? I don't know. I wondered at first why I didn't remember my past this time. I think it's because we switched places. Right now he's somewhere talking to the other version of you— the one I love. I bet he wants to get back to you. The time before, it’s like we were in the same space." I picked at a hangnail with my thumb. "All I want is to get my old life back."

Sherlock sat on the edge of the seat, his face down, turning his coffee mug in his hands.

I went to reach for my coffee, knocking it over instead. I grabbed a handful of napkins and sopped it up. Sherlock took the rest out of the dispenser and helped me.

There weren't enough napkins to do a decent job. We left the soggy mountain in the middle the table, and both of us sat staring at the mound.

"But you're just like him. In some ways, you’re more than him," he said, eyes never leaving the napkins. Something inside me twisted to hear him say that.

Our waitress hadn't noticed. I blinked at the mess between us, not bothering to wave her over. I'd rather she didn't help us. No one could.

"But I'm not. Don't you want him back?" I looked up, studying his face.

"Of course I do."

He looked up at me. As our eyes met, a light crept into his, and I knew he wasn't completely convinced. A piece of him believed I was the one John he really loved—just crazy, or confused.

"I have to get back," I said. "I have to."

Sherlock sat back into the vinyl seat cushion, resignation washing over him.

"All right," he nodded, although he didn't have to say it. He'd already made up his mind to help me by meeting me here because that's the kind of man he was. He was in the rest of the way. "John told me he could travel from ‘universe to universe’ at will," he said.

In that instant I knew how. Of course. "On stage! Heightened sustained state. But what about the sand?"

"You don't need a whole beach. Just a handful. Maybe a grain."

"But not just any sand."

"Yes."

I scratched my head. William Blake. Of course. I only needed a little. A grain. Probably still had some on my scalp. Maybe. I checked under my nails. Shit, none. The rest of the sand— all down the drain.

"My clothes. It was in my clothes... but I threw them away. I didn't want to remember."

"Then they're still there— unless. What day is your trash pickup?"

"I don't know,” I said, texting Glenda. She probably thought I was crazy asking what day the garbage man came, but she answered almost instantly. “It’s not too late. She said tomorrow. When I get home, I’ll dig my clothes out."

"You're playing with the band Wednesday night. You could do it then."

I sighed. I really had to do this. I reached under the table and squeezed Sherlock's hand, then nodded to the waitress for the check.

"Yeah, I guess I will."


	29. Ziploc Bag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on Lake Michigan Sands: It’s soft and off-white, and we call it “singing sand” because of the squeaking noise caused by high quartz content it makes when you walk in it. Adults and children race down the dunes and jump, making them sing longer. The one who makes the sand sing the most wins! Quartz also transfers energy. The sand on Lake Michigan is one of the purest forms in the world. For more on parallel universes see my post [on Tumblr linked HERE](https://elwinglyre.tumblr.com/post/170621497520/a-note-on-the-sands-of-lake-michigan-mica-sex%0A).

Rotten food, paper towels, junk mail. All frozen.  _ Shit. What was this? Last week's chicken? My appetite is ruined. Bon appétit, my ass.  _ I felt like a homeless man, digging around in the two garbage cans by the back door, covertly scavenging for my old jeans and shirt.  _ It was the sand. It had to be.  _ I opened the trash bag and emptied it on the ground before me. I dug around on my hands and knees, searching.  _ Sand, sand, I had to have the singing sand.  _ At least it was cold enough that it didn't stink, but my fingers turned to stiff icicles digging around. In the second can, in the very bottom trash bag, my numb fingers finally found my clothes. I reached into the front pocket of my soiled old jeans and brought out a handful of sand, as white and sparkling as the snow around me. I put the singing sand back in my jeans pocket. The front and back pockets held more than enough for my purposes. I tried not to dwell on where my clothes had been as I carefully rolled them up and put the trash back. 

I crept through the mudroom door and slipped into the kitchen. I washed my hands first. My cold hands burned as the warm water poured over them. I dried them on a blue towel hooked to the cabinet and began my quest. Now, trying to find a ziploc bag to put the sand in was next to impossible in this kitchen. There were more than twenty old wooden drawers, every one of them stuck. By some miracle, I caught the silverware drawer before it fell to the floor. With each squeak, I tensed and looked up, certain I'd see Glenda come around the kitchen counter and ask what the hell I was doing in  _ her _ kitchen. I found the bags in the side of the linen drawer. I pulled one out, tucked it in my pocket then ducked through the dining room, down the ante room and up the stairs. I needed sanctuary. I had to think. Could I do this? Could I get our lives back? 

I had until Wednesday. I'd go to work tomorrow... maybe. At the very least, I should stop in and see Mrs. Hudson. My job at the flower shop was still there. As far as I knew.

I went to the wastebasket by my desk and meticulously emptied the sand out of my pockets into the bag. I sat cross-legged, leaning over the basket, careful not to spill any evidence on the floor. I felt kinda like a teenager trying to hide weed from my parents. My fingers were still stiff, cold, and shaky. I couldn't get the fucking bag to seal. I tried again.  _ Shit.  _ I placed it between my legs and blew on my hands to warm them.  _ There. Yellow and blue  _ _ do _ _ make green. _

I held up the bag; it swung lazily like a pendulum, and the light from the old lamp on my desk made the sand sparkle hypnotically. So much trouble from something so simple. I drew myself up off the floor, then threw my old clothes under my bed. I stashed the bag in my underwear drawer under my socks.

I felt out-of-sync, like an old clock winding down, ticking off each second slower and slower. My arms and legs felt detached. The house was still. 

I took my twelve-string Alvarez out of the guitar case and curled up on the cushions in the old bay window. I pressed my spine into the frame and ran one finger down the sheer curtains. Pulling them aside, I gazed down into the frozen garden. It was easier for me to think playing my guitar. I turned back to my twelve-string. Remembered Sherlock sitting on these very cushions in another universe, watching me below. The roses—the aroma, the sting of thorns—waited in the cold garden, dormant and lonely. And the sand. I could feel it sing through the strings. As my thumb caressed the smooth maple neck of my guitar, I connected with the other me— he  _ was _ me. That John and I were the same, our thoughts and our passions in tune. The realization vibrated inside. We both wanted the same things. Sherlock. The roses. The sand. And the garden...wanted us. Called to us the same. I scratched my wrist where the thorn hid beneath my skin— where it hid beneath the other John's skin as well. My face became hot. Christ. My cock was hard. How long had it been since we'd been down there?

Too long. It had been too long since we'd been down there.

I wanted to go outside to the garden, but I moved away from the window onto my bed instead. Glenda had a hothouse with the roses, but going there would solve nothing, just fill a void. As I thought of Sherlock and moved my fingers over the frets, my head finally cleared. Wednesday, I would try to go back to my universe, to my Sherlock, and if it didn't work, I made up my mind that I would never try to slip into another reality. It hurt too much, but worse, it hurt others too much.    

I wondered what I'd be going back to. I worried about Sherlock. My uncle, Peter, and Glenda told me how hard it would be for Sherlock to deal with his new immortality and all that went with it. I thought about what my Sherlock gave up by taking the serum.  

If I stayed here, the Sherlock in this time might make the same choice as my Sherlock had. I couldn't stop myself from loving this Sherlock, but I could stop myself from making this Sherlock immortal.   

Then there was Moriarty off destroying my life in another universe.    

My mind whirled. I decided I'd wind down the rest of the day one chord at a time.    

\------------------        


Tuesday morning there was no hiding. I hoped I could sneak out and avoid Glenda's third degree, but no such luck. I had Sean's car keys in hand when she caught me at the door.    

She corralled me by pulling my coat and dragging me to the table. "Get in the kitchen and eat something! I'm making pancakes." Her hair was piled on top of her head, face freshly scrubbed, glowing.   

I surrendered and sat down and watched her leaning over in her blue terry cloth bathrobe, testing the griddle with a drop of cold water. It popped and fizzled.    

"Ready," she said, pouring the batter, then pointing to the counter. "Coffee's ready, too. Have some."   

I got up, took a mug out of the cupboard and poured a steaming cup. I scratched my palm.   

I sat back down with a black cup of coffee.    

"You must be desperate to avoid me if you're trying to sneak off without a cup of coffee in the morning," she observed, lifting the edge of one pancake, peeking underneath. "You can't skirt this forever. You have to talk about it sometime."   

Not sure exactly what she was referring to, I shrugged and feigned indifference. I figured she was probably referring to my ordeal with Moriarty, but better to not jump to any conclusions— like maybe she knew I had the hots for Sherlock _. _

Then again, maybe she just suspected something and was fishing for information.

"I know there's nothing I can say,” she began. “I can't imagine what it must have been like being buried like that." She systematically flipped the pancakes over one by one. "Or what happened with _ that man,  _ Moriarty. You've been keeping too much to yourself, locked up in your room. I'm worried for you, John. Your body is here, but you're still not with us. I keep looking for our John. Every moment or two, I'll see him, and then he’s gone. There’s no light in your eyes. I want the sparkle back in your eyes again."   

"I don't think that's going to happen."   

She slapped each pancake off the griddle onto a red Fiesta platter. She set it on the table next to the syrup. I stared down at my reflection in my sunny yellow plate.  _ Nope, no sparkle today. _

"I don't remember," I said, the bright colored dinner plates not doing much for my appetite or appearance.    

She stepped behind my chair, her hands on my shoulders, massaging my neck with her thumbs.    

"I don't believe you. You’re enrolled for the Winter term at the university, but you haven’t bought books. That’s not like you., but then, you've always been one to avoid what's unpleasant."

I choked on my coffee. Now that was the understatement of the year! "Unpleasant? Fuck!"

"Ouch!" I said. She’d pinched my side! She wagged her finger at me, then plopped pancakes on my plate and smothered them in butter and syrup. “I love college. That’s not it at all.”

"Maybe it's cool to swear like that around your friends, but not in front of me," she scolded. 

"Sorry."

"You  _ do _ remember," she said firmly. 

"Some," I admitted, taking a small bite. "But not all."

"What do you remember?"

"I'm not certain how long I was there, but I do remember being buried. I remember Moriarty throwing sand on me. The grit in my mouth. He wouldn't talk to me, just shoveled more and more sand on top of me. I remember not being able to move and how I itched. That sand was like little pieces of fiberglass. You know how wonderful it feels to be able to scratch?" I automatically scratched my head, my arms, the top of my legs. "All I could do was dream and think. After a while, I couldn't tell what was a dream, imagination from reality. I didn't hope anymore. I lived in a Mind Palace." 

She put her arms around me and hugged me tight. “Mind Palace? That’s a curious term. I haven’t heard it in years.”

"I think I have some idea what it's like to go insane," I said, resting my head back against her robe, closing my eyes. Then I heard someone else behind me and turned to see my uncle listening intently. I don't know how long he'd been standing there, or how much he'd heard. I sensed it wasn't long. He smiled sadly at me, then walked to the table and quietly sat down across from me.

"Mind Palace? What about before?" he asked. "What do you recall?"

"With Moriarty? I don't remember. Nothing at all. To tell you the truth, I don't think I want to remember what happened, or what he did to me so please don't make me try."

I swished my coffee around in my cup, struggling not to cry. The sunny yellow plate mocked me as Glenda pulled up a chair and sat down next to me, her knees touching mine. With that simple touch, I felt her kindness more keenly than her soft words.

"I know what he did to  _ me _ ," my uncle began, "and I hoped you were spared that. I won’t make you remember. This loss of memory might be a gift."

"We don't want to force you," she said. "Maybe it's best you don't, but we want to know if he took you somewhere else. All these years and we've never found where Moriarty lives— where he hides. If you know, your uncle could end all this forever. He'd never bother any of us again." 

“He lives in Buenos Aires. Near the Community.”

“John. How do you know that? And where did you get the idea of the Mind Palace?”

“I don’t know. I just know it.”

I had a good idea how my uncle would end it. Pretty similar to Glenda's solution, only a bit more permanent and grisly. Not a comforting thought, even though I hated him. The same fate could be mine by Moriarty's hand, or worse, it could be the fate of someone I loved. I wondered if I’d try to stop it from happening again.

I hesitated. How could they know about Sherlock’s Mind Palace? I wasn’t about to ask them. Better to leave it at “I just know.”

I knew where he'd taken me to the Community, but this was a different time and place. Moriarty took the other John somewhere, and I’d bet that he took him—me—  _ him _ — to somewhere sterile like the Community. This was all so confusing, not knowing where my life began here. 

"I don't know where, honestly," I said.

“Why did you say Buenos Aires? We've searched for years there. How he can keep where he hides a secret?"

With no one to stop Moriarty, he probably performed horrific acts on me. Judging from my condition before Moriarty buried me and my past experience with Moriarty, I thought my uncle's suspicions were right. I just didn't want to think about the hell that the John in my universe was living through. That John knew where Moriarty took me. All the more reason for me to try to switch back. If we could, then he could tell Uncle Greg and then maybe they could stop Moriarty— at least in one universe. 

Maybe I should try to remember. What if I could never go back? I rubbed my hands over my face.

"I don't know. It's all a blank, but I have nightmares. I'm not sure what was real anymore."

Glenda reached out, thumb brushing a tear off my cheek. In the touch was love and protection. No malice. As her finger left, I still felt it there.

"John, look at me," he ordered, and I raised my eyes to his. I felt them pierce through me. "Tell me.  _ Who are you _ ?"

"John Watson. At least I hope I still am." 

He reached over and grabbed my hand and in one instant I could feel that he knew— that I wasn't his John. I stared into his eyes. We understood each other.

"I need to go see Mrs. Hudson. I need to go to the greenhouse. I have to see that some things haven't changed," I admitted.

Glenda frowned, looking from me to my uncle. She studied both our faces. She knew some silent words had passed between us. 

"Eat first," she said, pointing at my pancakes. She hesitated, deciding what was the best action to take. "It's time for me to wake Sean." Glenda started for the door, tightening the belt of her bathrobe, then turned. 

Uncle Greg waited for her to leave the kitchen, then asked: "Is there anything else you need to tell me?"

"Yes, but," I concentrated on my plate. "I don't know where to begin."

"Go visit Mrs. Hudson, but when you get home tonight we'll talk, just you and I."

I nodded, and then he left me alone in the kitchen to finish my pancakes and think.         


\------------------    

The sign on the front of the store said "Help Wanted." I had to admit I was a little pissed that she'd try to replace me at the flower shop. I'd always figured I was pretty indispensable. I sucked it up and opened the door. Probably needed to hire two people to replace me. I'd thought about calling first to let Mrs. Hudson know I was coming in— maybe if I had, she might have taken down that stupid sign. She was standing at the front counter on the phone when I walked up the steps and she turned as she heard the door ring. 

Her face glowed when she saw me. She waved excitedly with her free hand. I'd never seen her get off the phone so fast. Next I knew, I was in this crushing hug. For someone who looked so slight, she easily lifted me off the floor. Ginger cookies and peppermint kisses covered my cheeks. Guess I didn't have to worry about any stupid Help Wanted sign.

Anderson walked up the steps from the back greenhouse

"About time you decided to show up," he whined, throwing me an empty watering can. "Make yourself useful and give those African violets on the front room floor a drink."

I caught the can then set it down then leaped into Anderson's arms and planted a sloppy kiss on his lips. 

"Hi to you too!" I winked.

I'd never seen Anderson blush before.

It was almost like being home.

\-------------------

I wasn't in much of a hurry to get home and talk to Uncle Greg, so I took my time driving back. I drove by my old house, which was still intact and untouched by fire. Obviously it never was  _ my  _ house— I could just make out a colorful red and blue swing set over the six-foot privacy fence surrounding the yard. A tricycle was left haphazardly in the driveway, ready to be crushed by the white minivan parked in front of it. The lawn had yellow patches with melted dirty snow in piles along the driveway. 

Next, I drove by Anderson's apartment. It looked the same— a familiar old Ford truck was parked in her driveway along with Mary’s white Intrepid. The curtains were replaced by shades in the front window. 

As for my parents' house— it wasn't there. Nothing remained. A modular home stood in its place, all symmetrical and plastic with pointed corners and neat square juniper shrubs lining the drive. 

I hadn't been consciously avoiding finding out what life was like for John here, but I'd skirted around the painful memory of my family. They were still gone, Mom, Dad and Harry. Our family home erased. I lived with my aunt and uncle.

This ride down memory lane made my stomach churn and my throat tighten. Nothing felt real. None of this. What I sought was the familiar; what I found was foreign. For a few fleeting moments at work, I felt myself. Now, it was washed with the uncanny feeling that I didn't belong in my own skin.

I thought about tomorrow night and what I hoped would happen on stage, and I prayed that bit of sand would work. 

I found the car driving itself down Sherlock's street. His Cutlass was there, all clean and waxed, not a speck of salt on it, chrome glinting in the setting sun. I smiled and hummed. His car was a polished and shiny extension of his psyche. I drove around the block on autopilot, finding myself back where I came from and romancing thoughts of Sherlock with his hands between my legs with me sprawled out in the comfy white vinyl backseat of his car. I pulled into his driveway. I could have called my turning the steering wheel happenstance; I knew better. I sat in Sean's car for the longest time, swearing under my breath for even being in Sherlock's driveway. I still felt sick to my stomach, but I didn't leave, cursing my weakness. I could blame the pain in the pit of my gut on reliving the past or maybe on skipping lunch or maybe even on those pancakes this morning. I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel, then decided to punctuate my idiocy with a bit of self-loathing, banging my forehead against the wheel chanting,  _ “stupid, stupid, stupid' _ ” when suddenly the goddamned horn went off. I sat up and fumbled for the keys and put the car in reverse. 

I jumped when Sherlock rapped on my window. 

"Are you going to get out?" he asked, and I turned my head and looked at him: His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and he bounced up and down to keep warm. The blue scarf wrapped around his neck slapped in the wind. "Are you getting out?" he repeated. I could see the breath puff out of his mouth. Those lips. Why did he have to look so damned handsome in that Belstaff?

"Not!" I blurted. "Not! Not getting out!" 

My heart hammered clear up to my throat. I ached to feel something real. Sherlock was my touchstone, my center. I knew I had the power to make or break that same heart that was clamoring inside my chest. But I had to do what was best for Sherlock's heart too.

"Get out of the car. Come inside."

I grabbed the handle and started to open the door but my brain reminded my dick what a mistake it might be for me to get out of the car. I had hoped I could back the car out and pretend I hadn't seen him. Now I was screwed. Or maybe he was screwed. Not an unpleasant thought. So I put the car in park and turned it off. I  _ tried _ to look cool. I slid my body closer to the window, flopped one wrist over the steering wheel while I adjusted the rearview mirror with my other hand, checking myself in it. My unavailing nonchalant  _ I could give a fuck _ aura wasn't cutting it. 

I threw my hands up in the air and gave in. I could do this. He smiled at me and I smiled back. He opened the car door and I got out, looking over my shoulder. That's when I noticed the black SUV parked across the street. 

Fuck, it looked like Moriarty with some other guy I didn't recognize. Probably some minion. That's what I got for becoming so distracted with Sherlock. I kicked myself mentally for becoming too comfortable and believing Moriarty would actually leave me to travel off to some time or place away from here. I took another quick look. No, it was him or some other version of him watching me—watching  _ us _ —from across the street.

I wasn't sure whether to get Sherlock back into the car and drive off, or follow Sherlock back into the house and call for help. I decided to pretend I didn't see Moriarty and make for the house. 

I couldn't follow Sherlock into his house quickly enough. 

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, as I nudged him the rest of the way through the door. "What's this all about?" I shut the door behind us.

"Moriarty is outside," I said under my breath as I threw the deadbolt. "I just noticed him when I got out of the car. You wouldn’t happen to have a gun?"

“Why ever would I need a gun?” 

He pulled his iPhone out of his front pocket, texting, but as he walked back to me, the phone rang in his hand and he froze. His shoulder tightened then relaxed as he looked at the number. 

"It's Sean," he said, handing me his phone. 

A familiar voice croaked "Hello?"  Shit, I was so happy to hear Sean's voice I wanted to kiss him.

"Yes?! Thank you," I half shouted. "Sean, get Uncle Greg on the phone right now! Moriarty is here. He's fucking outside Sherlock's house!"

"Fuck!" Sean shouted. "I knew something was wrong— I felt it!" The phone clattered as Sean dropped the phone. I waited. Then nothing. 

"Hello? Hello? Disconnected," I said, handing it back to Sherlock, who began texting again. "Doesn't matter. They'll be on their way in a moment. Until then, let's find something around here to arm ourselves with in case Moriarty and his friend try to break in."

Sherlock slipped his phone back in his pocket, then reached under the couch and pulled out a harpoon. I burst out laughing.

“There’s also a baseball bat under the other chair,” he said, “and I have a butcher's knife in the second kitchen drawer on the right.”

“Sherlock, why do you keep a harpoon under your couch?”

“It’s why I have a butcher’s knife. I needed them to solve the case of that maniac butcher who cut his wife to bits, then served her to his customers. Don’t look at me like that! I tested them at a  butcher shop on pigs!” 

“You really do need a gun.”

I got the baseball bat and cleaver as Sherlock moved flush against the wall, straining to see the front door through the windowblinds. I stepped next to him to look; a man in a dark trench coat stood with his back to the front door, watching the street. I could hear Sherlock texting again when I heard glass breaking and a thump coming from the master bedroom. 

He texted rapidly, then pulled me away from the window when I heard the frame from the back door groan and splinter just as Moriarty came out of the bedroom. Blood pounded in my ears and everything slowed.

Moran broke through the back door. 

"Shit." I sure as hell wasn't sticking around with Sherlock to find out whose side Moran was on in this universe. With a crash, I smashed out the picture window with the bat as Moriarty raced across the room. Moran tackled Moriarty as I smashed out a large piece of glass dangling from the top of the window, then yanked Sherlock out the window behind me along with his harpoon, trying my best to deflect the glass from Sherlock. We rolled out the window, over the juniper bushes below and into a dirty snow bank. The momentum left us both on our knees in the melting snow. My keys were still in my pocket, soaked in my blood where a large shard of glass stuck out. I was numb. Sherlock pulled me up to my feet and I pulled it out of me. His eyes were wide and panic stricken. Moriarty’s man who had been at the door was on top of us, and he swung at Sherlock, catching him on the chin. Sherlock barely flinched. The air was quiet around us, and I could hear Sherlock taking a deep breath just before his arm came up with his harpoon, snapped in half. All that practice in the butcher shop paid off: Sherlock speared him in the gut, bending him forward. To Sherlock’s and my surprise, he grimaced and pulled it out. His straightened up just in time for Sherlock to hit him in the jaw. He spat out blood on his sleeve as he reached inside his coat and came at us again.  _ Great, _ I thought, _ A fucking switchblade. _

Well, I had a meat cleaver!  “Guess whose is bigger?! Mine! That's not a knife.  _ This _ is a knife. Actually, this is a cleaver. You get my point. My edge, rather, as this thing doesn't really have much of a point. Much like this monologue. Look, I'm going to stop talking now and slice your hand off if that's OK with you.”

The front door opened and Moriarty came down the steps holding a gun, making a straight line for us. 

Sherlock pulled me toward the car, then we turned and ran. I threw Sherlock the keys.

Moriarty was behind me. Sherlock was already inside, car running. He hit the automatic door lock the moment I was inside. Sherlock made our getaway like we were right out of  _ The Fast and the Furious _ , tires burning rubber as we high-tailed in reverse, then spun out fishtailing forward down the quiet little suburban street.

 

"Shit, sorry about the window," I said, swearing as I flicked bits of the glass out of my hand. "How much do you think it will cost to replace it?" I felt Sherlock's eyes studying me. I looked over at him, rolled down the window and flicked the glass out of it. 

"I’ve never jumped through it before this. At least not my own window," he answered, checking the rearview mirror. He wiped the blood out of his eyes where it trickled from a cut across his brow. Other than that, he looked unscratched from where I sat. The gash didn't look too deep, but probably would need stitches. Pretty lucky that was all that happened back there. 

He checked behind us again, then began to laugh.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"All this," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "God, all the trouble you went through for Moriarty to not know about me, and he still knew. John. He's known for a hell of a long time. I actually talked to the son-of-a-bitch months ago, before you disappeared. I noticed him watching the house, and I confronted him. Tonight I confirmed my suspicions. He told me he was a private investigator watching the  _ neighbor's _ house, which was a lie. Said the husband hired him to find out if his wife was going out on him. The husband couldn't care less. He’s been cheating on her for years and is ready to move out with his secretary."

"What about Moran?”

“I texted him.”

“You what?! How did you even know his number?”

“Please...I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

“You dick! All smarmy with your collar up like you’re cool! Like ‘I’m Sherlock Holmes’ is the answer to everything in every universe.”

“It is. Do keep up. Moran has been at all of the band’s gigs. I saw him in my neighborhood. It’s obvious he was casing the place. I confronted him. Deduced him. He was impressed. That was him that came through the back door and tried to stop Moriarty. He’s working for the Community against Moriarty.”

“You know, Moran has been pretty much a pain in the ass in each universe, but he's been true to what he believes. I can't help but like the asshole. He came through for us."

I wiped the blood from my side, revealing a neat scar.

"That's fascinating,” he said, trying to get a better look. I grabbed the wheel before the car left the road. “I’d like to watch the entire healing process." 

"Maybe next time," I sighed. I patted his knee, then gave him a sad smile. "If there is one."

“There’s another way, isn’t there?”

I watched the road ahead. I could have lectured him on why he didn't want to be like me, but I was too tired and too overwrought to explain the cost of becoming immortal. 

I saw Sherlock eyes flick up at the mirror again. “No one is following us, but he doesn’t need to follow. He knows exactly where we're going. What’s wrong?"

"I was just wondering how I’m going to explain you to Aunt Glenda. Hey," I said, pointing in the other lane. "That was my Uncle Greg!"

Sherlock honked the horn as the car sped past us, then slowed to a stop at the side of the road. I turned to see my uncle’s brake lights come on.

"I am certain your Uncle Greg suspects there is something between us."

Uncle Greg pulled around and pulled next to our car. "Maybe it’s time for the truth," I said quietly.

Sherlock sighed as my uncle rolled down his window. Sherlock did the same. 

"You okay?" Uncle Greg asked. 

"Fine,” I said. “We're both fine, but Sherlock needs some stitches..."

"You can fix him up at home. Meet you back there. I'll follow."

Sherlock rolled the window back up and turned to me. 

"Which truth would that be?" he asked me.

"The one my heart tells me," I said, brushing away a tear. I could do that in front of Sherlock in any universe. If he wasn't driving I would have clutched his coat and thrown my face into it. Instead, I covered my eyes and used the back of my own hand to wipe my snot and tears. Not very absorbent. 

He took his free arm, pulled me up against him and held me. He leaned back into me, kissed my neck, then rested his temple against mine while I silently cried. I began to feel that spark and light inside me again. Our connection. I needed his warmth. For a change, it wasn't just my hormones. After I had a good cry, I told him that I would love him in any universe. I told him what to expect from his John when he returned to him. I told him that if his John never returned, I would be here. For him.

I told him I would yell I love him from my aunt and uncle's rooftop. I’d do it for his John. I would do it for me. Then I put my arm around him while he cried. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to MrBotanyB for the fine beta and writing a funny "cleaver" joke (adding to my joke about whose knife is bigger). Thank you!


	30. Going Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another universe jump!

Uncle Greg's car was parked in the back. I was surprised but thankful to see my uncle beat us home so we wouldn't have to face Glenda's wrath alone.

She stood on the porch, waiting. Sherlock and I sat in the car as it idled for a few minutes in the driveway. He grimaced, then reached over for my hand, and I leaned into him as he turned off the car. The towel he was using to stop the bleeding was soaked in blood, and I pulled it away to get a better look at his wound. The cut on his forehead was deep and gaping. His eyelids fluttered as my fingertips lightly traced the wound.

"Better?" I asked. Sherlock bit his lip and nodded, then he looked into the rearview mirror, lightly touching his forehead, wiping away more of the the blood with the end of the towel. His own finger traced the clean scar where the gash once was. He looked at me confused.

"How?" 

"I don't know, I just do it," I answered. 

"Brilliant! You didn't tell me you could heal people. Just think of the money you could rake in as a televangelist."

"Well, it's not something that I want to become common knowledge. It's one of those abilities the Community and Moriarty covet. I wouldn't normally do it, but I don't think you're going to get to a doctor any time soon." 

He squeezed my hand and then feigned a cough. "Can you get rid of a cold?"    


I blushed, thinking about touching his chest and mouth. I laughed, then looked toward the porch. 

"Well, not today," I said, nodding to Glenda. "I guess we should get out and get this over with."

We walked up to the house like two inmates on death row. Her fixed stare burned through us. I held her eyes right back. She scowled at Sherlock's forehead as we climbed the front steps. It seemed to me she should act more concerned than pissed off. We were both covered in blood, after all! I looked into her face, her lips and brow an unforgiving line. I knew she'd witnessed everything in the car, which was the point of my little exhibition when I healed him. It would save time if she knew what Sherlock meant to me, that he knew what I was, what we are. Besides, he had needed attention. He was in pain. As I brushed past her, my hand intentionally came in contact with hers, hoping to get some insight into what she was thinking, and maybe pass on a bit of what I was thinking to her. Most times my powers came and went like so much wind, but this time they worked like 2000 volts; I saw into her. She knew. And she didn't like what she saw.

Well fuck, this wasn't going to be pleasant.

As I walked into the house, something else was off. Some animals sense impending doom and escape natural disasters. I've experienced some of those intuitions myself. As I listened to the old grandfather clock tick-tocking, the universe felt out of sync. My right hand balled into a fist, and my finger tingled where I'd touched her hand. Unsure and afraid of what to say, I wasn't at all positive she wasn't a threat to Sherlock. 

As she followed us into the living room, I got that familiar ache behind my eyes. Finding out that I wasn't the “John” she thought I was didn't make her too happy. She had already figured a piece of the puzzle out at breakfast this morning. Those pancakes were made with love for someone else named John, not me. She was afraid of Moriarty, but it was Sherlock who she feared most. It wasn't going to be easy convincing her that Sherlock could be trusted without becoming one of them. She hated the idea of bringing a mortal, no matter how noble, into their inner circle. 

My uncle in the living room gave me some hope. He might be on our side, but he sat cross legged on the old couch, his rumpled gray suit coat strewn over the arm of the sofa. He faced us, watching me carefully.

Taking a deep breath, I lead Sherlock by the hand to the piano bench, intentionally divorcing us from them. The legs of the bench scraped hollowly against the hardwood floor. We both sat on the hard and unforgiving bench. Sherlock planted his hands on his thighs. I shoved mine between my legs. He looked to me for a sign. Some help I was! I didn't know what to do, so I grabbed his hand.

As she stood over us like naughty children, Glenda's eyes focused on our hands. Not the right move on my part. 

My voice came out rough. "So you know. I'm sorry. I can't help what I feel."

"Feel? Can't help what you feel? Control yourself," she paced the room. "You must, or all is lost. Plotting out all the possible ramifications for each action you may take— that is the only way we will win. Moriarty seeks pain for a reason. Feeling makes us weak. He would make us all feel as you do. Bring us down. Break us as he did you. He may have the secret even now because of you! You do not  _ have _ to act on what you feel. Think! Separate yourself! Feeling causes pain. Chaos. It destroys. It is not an advantage!" She stopped pacing and turned to, face us. 

I couldn't believe she had everything so, so wrong. She thought Moriarty wanted my ability to feel pain, so he could use it against immortals. No. He wanted it for himself. He hated himself most of all. 

Her eyes narrowed on Sherlock. "And you!" she hissed. "What  _ are  _ you, and what are you after?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but I stopped him.

"You're wrong,” I said. “He’s not the threat. Neither is pain or love or emotions. Feeling doesn't have to destroy. You've forgotten what it's like. Pain can be a blessing, not just a curse. It is what kept me alive all that time when I was buried alive. Look at me: I didn't age, didn't break down. Moriarty took nothing important from me. He couldn't take anything from me but time and blood. He never touched my mind or heart. My thoughts were my own, my heart  _ is _ my own. Look at Moriarty. It's easy for him to inflict pain, but he inflicts it on himself the most because he’s empty. In his twisted way, he's living through others' pain. He doesn't want to shove it on you. He wants it for himself because he hates himself."

"How do you know this? Did he tell you?" asked my uncle.

"I know it because I was a part of him."

"I think it's evident he’s mentally unstable," Sherlock interrupted. "Tormenting others is entertaining for him, but it’s not his goal. He wants power."

"You!" Glenda exclaimed. "What do you know about any of this?"

"Enough. All one needs to do is pay attention," he answered. 

"Why did you bring  _ him _ into this?" she asked me. 

"Our lives intertwined before this timeline began. Moriarty knows about him. He knows your John loves him. He knows I love him. I wouldn’t be surprised if every John in every timeline loves him."

"That’s absurd! True love! Destiny! Fate! You believe that? Moriarty is using him against you because of your notions. This needs to end."

"I can't, and neither could any other John."

"Love!" she spat. "Love is the source of all weakness."

"You say you love me,” I said. “Do you think _ that _ is a weakness?"

"Yes. My only weakness is that I love. You, Sean, my brother... It is the only source of pain I feel."

"Enough of this," my uncle interrupted, turning to me. "You seem to think you know Moriarty better than us. Tell us what you know."

"Sherlock's right; he is unstable. He’s also a genius who thinks he knows what he wants, but he doesn't. He thinks he wants it all, wants to be a god: travel through universes; feel passion and pain He believes my blood carries the answer. I don't know if it does or not, but I’ve seen inside him and I can tell you, he doesn’t know his own heart." 

"I suppose you think he wants love, too." Glenda spat at me.

"Ultimately, he does," I squeezed Sherlock's hand. "He's searching for it, but you can't find something when you don't know what you're looking for."

She looked at Sherlock and shook her head. "You’re implying that he loves. Who?”

“His mind is confused. When we connected, a part of me fed into him.”

“You’re not implying that he’s in love with him!” she said, pointing to Sherlock, who looked as shocked as she did.

“You weren’t listening. He doesn’t understand what he’s feeling.”

“What are we to do with him?" she asked me, pointing at Sherlock again.

“I am right here. You could ask me,” Sherlock said. 

"Leave him alone,” Lestrade said. “The only threat he holds is in your head."

"And when you leave, and our John comes back to us, do you expect us to just ignore  _ him _ ?" she asked.

"My  _ name  _ is  _ Sherlock.” _

“I don't expect you to ignore him,” I said. “I expect you to accept him."

"You expect too much."

"Mom always said that I should set high expectations," I said. 

"Your mom expected so much of others she ended up dead."

What did she know about  _ my _ life?  _ My _ parents? She could never take that back. 

"You don't know where I came from.” I shook with anger. “You don't know who I am. If you ever say something like that again, I will walk away, and I’m not just talking about me. Every one of us. I hope I can return to my time and your John returns, but if you make him choose and talk with this venom, he won't let you back into his life. But most of all understand this: Hurt Sherlock and you hurt us all. You think love is your weakness, but it's not mine. Love is the source of my strength."

\-------------------

We came to a compromise. Sherlock and I would stay in separate rooms. She didn’t know that it wasn’t really a compromise. It was necessary. This Sherlock was not mine. I was satisfied Glenda would leave Sherlock alone. What went unsaid was any discussion of making Sherlock like us, and I didn't want to bring it up to him. He didn't need to know this was even an option— not in this universe.

Sherlock would be safe in the room next to mine. Uncle Greg stayed downstairs, talking with Glenda. 

As I got ready for my night's performance, I patted the baggie in my front pocket. This had to work. I'd flattened out the sand in the bag and crammed it into my leather jeans and practiced reaching into my pocket with my guitar in my hand. The leather pants were tight, but I could manage to get my hand inside the bag.

Sean and I left late to go to the Road House. It'd be nice to see the place again when it wasn't a charred heap like it was in my universe. I had wanted to look around the place, wanted to set up, get ready, prepare myself. Instead, I spent half my time talking to myself in the mirror, trying to get into the right state of mind, and the other half pacing my room worried that this wouldn’t work. How the fuck does anyone get into the right state of mind to jump universes? 

Mindlessly watching the houses go past as Sean drove, all I could think of was Sherlock. The last hours we'd been kept separated. I believed putting space between us was best. I didn't trust myself with the hothouse roses so close and Sherlock so near. Keeping him at a distance was my uncle's  _ and _ my way to appease Aunt Glenda. I felt like I was in withdrawal. My stomach knotted, my hands shook. Christ, when I saw him I broke into a sweat. I kept blaming the fucking roses. I hoped denying my fix would work to my advantage. Yeah, being edgy will take me back to my Sherlock. I was terrified tonight would work, and I was terrified it wouldn't. 

Sean hummed the theme song to  _ Three’s Company _ as he made a detour, turning into McDonald's. I counted the greasy smudges on the take-out window as he paid for his number three value meal. I didn't get anything. My stomach was churning enough already without a Big Mac and Coke. My legs were jumping like I was wired with caffeine. Sean pulled out onto Michigan Avenue, and I pushed down on my knees to stop them from bouncing when he stomped on the brakes, and I heard our tires screech. The car in the far lane stopped the same time we did. My arms didn't react in time, my nose smacking the dashboard. 

"What the fuck?" I hissed, holding my nose. And I had on my seatbelt.

"Had to stop," Sean said, chewing on a fry. "Damn black cat just crossed our path." He reached for another limp fry then pointed to the black cat skittering off the side of the road. He looked at me sideways. "You okay? How's your nose?" 

"Yeah, I'm fine, but I bit my fucking tongue, too." 

"Probably tastes better than this quarter pounder with cheese."     

I wasn't one to believe in bad omens, but that fucking cat had me nervous.  _ Shit. _

The rest of the ride was uneventful, just old country side roads littered with potholes. We pulled into the backlot of the Road House and started to unload our equipment from Sean's back seat when Sean looked down at me and laughed.    

"What's wrong?" I asked. 

"You better rearrange that bulge," Sean pointed to my crotch. "People will think we're in love."

I blushed as I looked down. Damn tight leather pants gave everything away. 

"Shit," I said, jumping around. "It's the sand.

"Ha! That's a new one," Sean grinned.

"No seriously, it's the baggie with sand in it." I squirmed around, trying to shift the contents of my pocket.

“Hmm. You and your good luck omens. That and your lucky guitar pick should ward off the curse of the black cat crossing our path.”

I heard Mary's squeal too late. My body fell forward as she jumped on my back, wrapping her arms around my throat like a boa constrictor. I dropped my guitar case.

"Fuck Mary, you're choking me!"

She mussed my hair before letting me go and giving me a noisy kiss on the cheek. 

"Can't wait to hear you play again, baby." 

"Yeah, I can't wait to play either." I smiled wide and giggled. She was a beautiful sight. Tight white linen skirt with sling backs. All bounces and bubbles with her hair perfect, lips bright.  I thought she looked like she'd burst any moment from excitement. She teetered, beaming beside me. 

"You look great," I said. "Special occasion?"

"Well of course it is!" she said, hitting me hard in the shoulder making me drop my guitar for the second time. "You're playing— you nimrod!"

Damn, that hurt. I massaged my shoulder and picked my case back up. 

Mary followed us through the back door, chattering animatedly the whole while. I tried to pay attention to what she said, but I was too distracted. She was so much, wah, wah, wah. 

He was already there, he’d come with my uncle. I walked in and saw him. Sherlock’s long, handsome frame rested against the wall to the right of the stage. He was talking to Jimbo and hadn't noticed me yet. Sherlock laughed. I sighed. Christ, that mouth. Purple silk shirt and tight faded jeans. His smile became mine as he turned to me. I waved him over, and I wasn’t sure why. I just wanted him near.

Uncle Greg sat at the front table with a glass of beer in his hand watching. He didn't approve, but at this point, I didn't give a shit. She didn't like smoke or drunks, so Aunt Glenda hadn't come. I could tell by the way he was watching, she'd expect a detailed report from him when he got home. Uncle Greg just didn't look like anyone's uncle to me... not mine for sure. 

I bent down and opened my guitar case. My palms were itchy and sweaty.

"Here, I’ll help you," Sherlock said, raising his eyebrow as he looked down. "Your face is flushed and smeared with lipstick,  _ and  _ you've got a raging hard-on. Why is that?"

I wiped my cheek, sputtering. "Fuck, I... Mary... I mean... she kissed me... I mean..." I felt my face getting hotter and hotter. "It's not me— it's the sand in my pocket. Here, I’ll show you!"

"No. Not here. Maybe if we step backstage," he said, laughing.

"You're enjoying this!"

"And you're cute when you're flustered."

I thought I might not live through Sherlock helping me set up. My stomach did somersaults and handsprings every time he brushed my arm or leg. 

\------------------

The first set went by fast. I joked and jumped around on stage. Sean, Uncle Greg and Sherlock never took their eyes off me, waiting for my transformation. I did well at first. Songs I didn't know, I faked. I couldn't keep it up though. By the second set, I was so anxious, I started forgetting a lot of the lyrics and riffs I  _ did _ know. I wasn't sure if it was me or being watched every second like I was going to disappear in a cloud of smoke. As the set ended and we walked to the side of the stage, Smith pulled me aside.

"What’s wrong?" he asked. "You can take a break this set if you need to." Smith suggested, tinkering with his earring. "Get yourself together. No pressure.You're still not yourself."

I shook my head and said, "No, I want to play."

_ Not myself. _ Smith didn't know how close he was. Bill rubbed my back, working out the tension between my shoulders. "You'll get over the first night back jitters before we finish," he said.

Fuck it was hot in here tonight! I threw back three gulps of water and poured some over my head, then shook the water out of my hair as I stepped out with the guys to play again. My fan club cheered me on as I picked up my guitar. Mary, the leader, bounced wildly, waving, blowing kisses, and grinning at me. The sand had shifted again into a big bulge. I felt like one of those heavy metal rockers who shove socks down their pants to impress the ladies. 

I was wired. Sweat dripped off my nose and my hands were slick from both the heat of this close, hot place and raw nerves. By the time we neared the end of the third set, I felt confident. Sean belted out the first words to "It's the End of the World as We Know It," and I nodded at Sherlock, sitting with a thin, strained smile on his face. The dance floor filled in seconds, blocking Sherlock's table from my view. There wasn't a space left on the floor by the time Sean got to the second verse. The entire band was in their own little worlds. Sean was immersed in the story of the song— eyes closed, fingers effortlessly gliding on his Fender. Smith smiled lazily, watching Sean. Jimbo winked at his new significant other, who sat watching us at the side of the stage. Old Bill strained his eyes looking through the nuts to butts, searching for that special someone to take home after the show. Someone long on legs but short on brains. And me, I listened to Sean's perfect vocals and decided it was time. 

 

The place smelled of sweat, beer and cheap cigarettes while Sean sang:

_ The other night I dreamt of knives, continental _

_ Drift divide. Mountains sit in a line, Leonard _

_ Bernstein. Leonid Brezhnev, Lenny Bruce and Lester _

_ Bangs. Birthday party, cheesecake, jelly bean, boom! You _

_ Symbiotic, patriotic, slam book neck, right? Right! _

 

The leather of my pocket stretched with the fingers on my right hand, reaching, reaching, reaching in. I heard my harem fan club in front of the stage howl as I groped deeper in my pocket. I knew Sean's eyes were on me. I felt the bag. Nothing like feeling myself up in front of the crowd as they screamed.

The hairs on my arms stood on end as I took a shaky step back, counting one, two, three. And I stepped up beside him and sang into the mic, my face pressing against his, our voices melding:

 

_ It’s the end of the world as we know it _

_ It’s the end of the world as we know it _

_ It’s the end of the world as we know it _

 

I closed my eyes and changed the words to the last line to "and I’ll be fine..." My right hand dropped from the guitar. I opened and closed my fist and whispered “there’s no place like home.”

The clapping hands, stomping feet faded. I struggled to open the seal on the baggie. I slipped one finger, unlocking one corner, reaching into the sand. Behind my eyes, I saw it glitter or imagined I did. It clung to my damp fingers, becoming a part of me. I couldn't smell the cigarettes or the beer or the sweat anymore. Instead, the room smelled like ozone after a storm. Then I heard Sherlock calling my name. I opened my eyes, and I wasn't in Kansas anymore.

I was in Pontiac. 

With a jolt I saw an ocean of bodies swaying in front of me. My eyes adjusted. The sparks of light from the sand turned to hundreds of lighters flickering. They were everywhere: high, low, thrust up into the seats like twinkling stars in the night. The last notes from the song still lingered in the stadium, and the rhythmic applause vibrated the floor of our stage. I was frozen. 

It worked. I was back.

Smith turned to me, frowning, then raised an eyebrow wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Bill and Jimbo looked to me, and I realized they expected me to speak or do  _ something _ . Sean stepped next to me, linking his arm through mine where my hand was in still snug in my pocket. My face was hot. Sean pulled me forward, hugging me next to him. The chanting, our names and the band's name, the syllables expanded like ripples. I listened for the one voice I wanted to hear. My head turned slowly to the right when I heard it. Sherlock stood by amps. 

Dressed in a suit and tie. Hands in this pockets. Jingling his change. Smiling. For me.

He knew. He knew it was me. 

I laughed and cried, hugging Sean. Then I turned to the crowd. I waited my whole life to play in front of an audience  _ this _ size in  _ this _ place. I'd been here so many times, and dreamed of standing in this spot on stage. Playing the Silverdome.  _ Shit. _ And I missed the whole show. As I waved my candy apple red Gibson above my head like a flag, I heard Sean shout above the crowd. 

The stadium quieted.

"You win!" he hollered. "One More Song," and the place erupted. He cupped his hand to my ear and yelled into it, "Good to have you back."

He pinched my cheek, then took one step back.

"You're on!" he nodded.

I panicked. 

"But what are we playing?" I yelled back.

"What are you, crazy? You're playing 'One More Song,'" he waved, bowed, then stepped back beside Smith. Leaving me. Center stage. Alone. 

For the rest of my life, I will never forget that split second of terror. 

I blew on my fingers, then wiped the sand off on the front of my legs and kissed my lucky pick. I smiled at Sherlock, then I struck the first chord. I sang the words to this song I'd written for him. Only for him.

My soul gave the best performance of my life.

\------------------

Afterward: Cosmic, surreal confusion. I was hustled backstage, through the corridors, out the back entrance, and onto the tour bus. No Sherlock. He'd disappeared, doing what managers do I assumed. Smith and Sean were already curled up together in the back. I sat in the seat in front of them.

"Might as well relax," Sean whispered to me. "It'll be a few minutes."

I leaned my back against the window, threw my legs across the seat and waited, watching the front of the bus.

"Where do we go from here?" I asked.

"Off to the hotel. We're staying at the Hilton. I think it's near here."

"Near here?" Smith mumbled, opening an eye and looking at Sean. "It's fucking across the street."

I rubbed my pocket and tried to get comfortable as possible.

"Throw me one of your pillows," I said, looking to the front of the bus again. "This window is hard."

"Mmm, need something soft to lean into?" Smith said. "Sherlock'll be here in a few. He's just making sure everything's in order for tomorrow night."

I nodded. But I still watched the front of the bus, waiting. 

Sherlock was loosening his tie as he came up the steps, his cat-like green eyes meeting mine. Smith nudged my shoulder and laughed, but my eyes never left Sherlock's as I swung my legs off the seat and watched him walk down the aisle. 

He stood in front of me, chin quivering as he sat down. He pressed his lips together tight, composing himself. His eyes smiled. When he touched my arm, it was all over with. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him so hard his back popped. 

"Geeze," said Smith, "you think  you hadn't seen him for months or something..."

Sherlock and I both looked at him and laughed. The bus started to move.

\----------------------------

I fidgeted, standing in front of the elevator doors at the Hilton as they whooshed shut and the floor lurched up.

"How safe is this thing?" I asked, pressing my hand flat to the wall and looking up at the ceiling. Not that someone invincible should worry, but shit, it might be painful falling five stories.

"This is a four star hotel. I'm sure it's safe. Want to test it?" He gave me a wicked smile and punched his finger into the red button labeled 'emergency only.' The elevator shook again— this time to a stop. He slammed his body into me, thighs prying mine apart, toes mashing into my instep and cheek pressing hard into my forehead. 

"God, I've waited for this, wanted this. I was so afraid," he moaned, his mouth covering mine. His tasted like cinnamon gum. 

Time stopped. I could feel every inch of him— and I mean  _ every inch—  _ as he ground me into the corner. I whimpered as he took his mouth from mine. I pulled on his tie with one hand to bring him in tighter, closer. "I've always wanted to fuck on an elevator," he whispered into my ear then licked it, sending heat straight from my earlobe to my cock. He teeth tugged on my ear as his length rubbed into my growing erection.

I yanked his tie again as he broke contact; his nose bumped into mine. "I don’t think we’ll have enough time. We'll have to wait until I get in you in the room for me to do you proper," I said.

"John," he moaned. He licked his perfect bottom lip, then he knelt in front on me, grabbing my hips, rocking me forward so that I had to throw my arms out against the sides of the elevator to brace myself. 

"This will have to do," he said. His hands slid up my calves, then pressed on up my legs, caressing my inner thighs, cupping my balls. My legs buckled as he absently brushed my cock and reached for the zipper on my leather pants. 

I thought I'd come right there.  

" _ Fuck. _ " He pulled my cock out, already hard and anxious to feel the inside of his mouth. I looked at the tousled black curls, his long eyelashes and I saw his nose twitching. God, I had missed this view.

I leaned back into the corner as I felt the sloppy, slick grip of his mouth. His teeth scraped lightly against the head of my dick. His head jerked a bit as we both heard voices above us. He knew he didn't have much time to tease me. He grabbed my ass and thrust me hard into his mouth, hitting the back of his throat. Quick and hard, he made it his goal to make me come fast. The voices from above became louder, and he became more urgent. I looked down and saw those perfect lips around my cock and that was it for me. My thighs tensed. 

I came in his mouth as the elevator jerked up. 

As the doors opened, I think it was evident what we were doing. Sherlock was wiping  _ his  _ satisfied grin and  _ my _ come off his mouth. I barely had time to put my dick back inside and zip. I knew when I saw my uncle's face go from concerned to annoyed that he was pissed. 

Sherlock hustled me off down the hall to our room. I didn't look back once.


	31. Black Hole Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock reunite in bed. Some sexy immortal fucks with lights and explosions followed by intense pillow talk. Almost named this chapter, "Black Hole Sun Won't Cha Cum." 
> 
> Thank you, to MrBotanyB for the incredible beta and "dandelion clock of stars." You are a genius!

I heard the click of the hotel door locking behind us as my mouth and arms scrambled for Sherlock. God, he tasted good with my come on his lips. I stopped with a jolt. Fuck, I almost forgot.

"Wait," I said, backing away. "I don't think it's too smart messing around with this sand in my pocket. I really don't want us traveling anywhere else. I rather stay in this universe with you."

"I thought you had to be in direct contact with it."

"Well, it's on my pants, too. Let's not take any chances."

He leaned heavily against the back of the wooden chair next to the dresser and sighed. "Take them off first then, and I’ll admire the view."

I unsnapped and unzipped, put my thumbs inside and pulled down. They didn't budge. I wedged my hands inside. Nope, I still couldn’t get them down past my hips. I hopped around, struggling. Nada. They were fucking stuck. I'd sweated so much that the damn things had become part of my skin. 

"Maybe I should help."

"No, I can get them off, just give me a few seconds." I bounced backwards on to the bed and threw my feet in the air, squirmed and shimmied and panted. Fuck, my exertions were making them cling more! Out of breath, I looked up at Sherlock with his arms crossed, smirking at me. "On second thought, why don't you grab on and pull?" 

“I thought you’d never ask.” Sherlock latched on to the bottom of my leather jeans like a dog on a bone, laughing the whole time. He snapped sharply toward the headboard, throwing me along with it, then he jerked me in the opposite direction toward the foot of the bed. Swinging me slowly back and forth broke some of the leather's grip. The bed springs squeaked and groaned under the effort; so did I, for that matter. With each of Sherlock's contortions, my legs released more. I grabbed for the headboard and hung on. 

"Again, harder!" I instructed. He looked up at me with those yummy green eyes filled with lust, and I rocked my hips suggestively. "Where's your motivation, baby?" I panted. "Come and get it!"

"Trying," he laughed, and with one snap of his wrist, they were over my hips. Now my bare ass was half off the bed. “They got hung up on that huge dick of yours. We should be able to get them off without a hitch now.”

"Again!" I encouraged.

Sherlock threw his weight back in a hefty tug that I could swear pulled my legs out of their sockets. He yanked one more time, and finally the leather gave way, sending him and my pants crashing backward over the chair.

Three succinct raps fell on our door. We both jumped.

"Hey, you two!" Smith yelled from the hallway. "Can't you do it without waking the whole freaking hotel?!" 

Sherlock muttered, picking the chair up. Then he remembered I was half naked on the bed and turned his predatory eyes to me. My heart was pounding, and my eyes watering. Erm yeah, and my dick was saluting. 

"Go away!" I yelled to Smith, grabbing my cock. "Not you!" I said to Sherlock, "You, come here!" Sherlock was on me. His mouth, his hands, roaming my body and his cock pressed hard next to mine. I thrust up against him, savoring the length, raising my back off the bed to get more. I opened my mouth wider and let him suck hard on my tongue. 

I didn't hear anything more from the hallway. Not that I was listening to anything other than our hearts pounding like subwoofers. My hands worked frantically at Sherlock's trousers, trying desperately to get them unfastened and off. In the same time it took for him to groan twice, I had them undone and pushed around his thighs along with his underwear. Then I reached for his cock and reverently stroked its length. Smooth, soft, the head moist under the foreskin. God, I'd missed him.

I broke away from his mouth. 

He spread his knees. "Fuck me." 

"Lube. Where's the lube?" I gasped.

"I haven’t needed it, but I kept some in my suitcase. Don’t move!" 

He jumped out of bed, kicking off his pants in the process, and ran across the room where his suitcase sat propped against the wall under the window. He threw it open, rummaging around. He pulled the lube out and stood back up. He was unscrewing the top as he walked toward me, smiling wickedly at me, and rubbing it generously on his fingers as he came back to bed. Then he bent over in front of me, ass in the air, and shoved his fingers obscenely up his lovely hole, first one finger then another and worked his hole rigorously. Fucking hell. I pumped myself in response. 

“Let me help you with that,” he said, then pulled his fingers out with a pop and slathered more lube on his hand. Those beautiful long fingers clasped my cock, then stroked me with the heat of the sun. 

"John!" he begged. “I do love your cock in my hand, but what I really need is for you fuck me with it.” 

I flipped him around and was on top of him the moment the words came out of his mouth, pushing his knees to his chest with my left forearm while my right hand guided my engorged cock into him. My mouth hovered, suspended three aching inches from his. I pushed gradually inside. I wanted to feel him, all of him around me. He pushed his hips up into me, and I pulled back. 

"Now, John!?" he pleaded. 

"I missed you," I whispered against his neck. I felt my cock slide the rest of the way inside his pert ass. I clutched at his curls, pulling his mouth hard against mine. 

"I missed you more." He rocked his hips, teasing.

"I don't think so."

"Prove it," he said.

Flash. I saw, I felt, his thoughts, and knew that he saw inside me. It was the spark of making eye contact, but with all senses at once. As we built up a steadily increasing tempo, my brain puffed apart into fragments. Not painful or alarming at all — a dandelion clock of stars. A drift of petals in a breeze. Flashes of memories, sharp and vivid against the dark. I saw his soul. His smell and touch filled the air, intoxicating, seeping through our pores, heating our blood. His flesh, his body, his immortality entwined with mine. The roses infused our senses. He saw my soul. This was my Sherlock. If I doubted before, I could no longer.

All I’d missed came through in a great wave. Sherlock’s lonely ‘I love you's’ cried in the night. His dreams, his nightmares, his waking panic, frantic he’d never see my return. He saw the same inside me, which sparked slobbering, broken sobs, hot whispered endearments and the smell of Mica lingering on our breath. I felt him near climax and could not separate my longing from his. Then, with a tremor, his muscles contracted, and I felt him come around me, through me, making a spectacular mess all over my sweat-drenched black fishnet shirt and his stomach. I came as the smell of roses and the touch of his skin blurred into a single sensation and all I could see disappeared into a flash of the brightest light. 

I didn't move. He didn't move. We stayed linked together until my cock slipped out. Even then, we lay still, holding the moment close. His thumb caressed my temple in lazy circles. My lips smiled against his neck. The room began to come into focus.

I didn't know what to do or say. I just felt safe. Content that Sherlock was here. Sleep came, and for the first time in weeks, I had good dreams.

I awoke the next morning to Sherlock's snoring. It really was a lovely thing. I never knew I could miss someone's snores, certainly never thought I could fall in love with them, yet I had. I closed my eyes and listened. They were a comfort, a reassurance. I opened my eyes, watching his nose twitch and eyes crinkle, those sharp cheekbones and full lips. The sun was just nudging through the curtains, warming the sheets. I smiled and wondered if Sherlock was dreaming of me. I touched his cheek to find out. I felt a bit guilty peeking inside him, like a kid reaching inside his grandma's candy dish. His lashes fluttered.  _ Oh, yes, he was dreaming of us. A pleasant dream. In his apartment, curled up together. No sex, just plain naked comfort, both of us snuggled in an old quilt on his sofa watching a black and white film.  _

He sensed me there. His eyes opened, and he smiled. 

"Hello you," he whispered.

"Hello you, too."

He pulled us together, filling in all his sharp edges with my smooth. 

"You don't know how happy I was when I realized that was  _ you _ on stage. I was so worried John's plan to switch back to his own universe wasn't going to work. I hoped and wished, but I just didn't dare plan I'd get you back."

"Hmm, are you so sure this is me?" I teased.

He snorted. "No doubt in my mind." He poked me in the side and giggles spilled out of me. I pulled the sheets up to our necks and snuggled in closer.

"When did you realize he wasn't me?"

"Right away that night on the beach," he said, folding me into his chest. "First you were begging us 'Please, please, don't bury Moriarty.' Then you grabbed the shovel from my hands. I thought you were going to toss it over the dune, instead you dug up a shovelful of sand and flung it down on Moriarty. You starting shoveling the sand down on him so fast and frantic I thought you'd snapped. You didn't say a fucking word. Nothing. All the way back to the cottage you shook and had a wild, far-off look. When we got back to our room, you withdrew. You wouldn't talk to me. You crawled into bed facing the wall, curled up with your knees to your chest. Then I touched you— er, the other John. I knew. I knew then. It wasn't you. Dr. Lestrade and the others didn't figure it out until later after I got John to open up."

"He told you what happened?"

"Yes, everything."

" _ Christ _ ."

"You know, then..."

"I have a pretty good idea. So Moriarty, where is he?" The sudden realization struck me. "He's still buried alive?"

"Yes."

I sat straight up. I didn't know whether to be relieved or not. "You sure?" I asked.

"Well, who in the hell would dig him up?"

"I don’t know. No one cares about him. Sad, isn't it?" Sherlock looked at me in disbelief and snorted. "Not like me. They found me. Glenda, Uncle Greg, Sean. They kept looking and didn’t give up. They found me with Toby’s help. But no one gives a fuck about Moriarty. No one. Maybe if someone had, he wouldn’t have ended up a psychopath." 

I lay back down next to Sherlock. I was surprised at myself for still feeling pity for him. I couldn't help it. Not everyone had people who loved them. 

We both looked at each other silently for awhile. I was feeling mighty thankful. It could have been so much worse.

"I have a pretty good idea what happened to the other John after being buried alive for months," I said finally. "Weird shit goes through your head. Let's say I had lots of time to think on what my counterpart had been through considering the condition I was in."

"You were buried for months?" His eyes welled up, and he hugged me tighter to his chest. “I was afraid that was the case. I hoped I was wrong.”

"It was better than the alternative. I'd rather be buried for months than have Moriarty touch me, torment me, rape me. God, no wonder he crawled up in a ball in bed next to you. I'm surprised he even snapped out of it."

I sniffed his chest. The fragrance was in him. For a change as I smelled the roses, I felt a comfort instead of lust. So nice.

"It was bad," he said. "Seeing him hurt and not able to do a thing to help. I knew he wasn't you, yet he was. He smelled like you, laughed like you, but when I touched him, it wasn’t you. Still, just seeing, being near to him, it hurt. I knew what happened to him, and I worried about where you were, and what was happening to you. After a while, I had trouble separating you from him."

"It was hard for me too, with the other Sherlock," I confessed. "Life wasn’t running smoothly for the two of them in their universe..."

"Yeah. I remember how happy he was when he found out that Glenda liked me. I thought he was going to come out of his skin. It made me happy, too. He told me that if Glenda could accept me in one universe, there was hope for his Sherlock in another. I thought, Christ, we were together in  _ another _ universe. A romantic notion, but I knew you’d appreciate it."

"He's had the whole parallel universe figured out for some time." 

"Yes, it was a revelation, but not for your uncle."

"How's that?" I asked. 

"Black hole, of course."

"Black hole?"

"That's how you do it."

"What?"

"Somehow you create a fifth-dimensional black hole through space, which takes you into the another universe."

I closed my eyes to think. 

"That doesn't make sense. I don't know a hell of a lot about black holes, but I thought they pretty much devoured and crushed everything that enters."

"Not micro holes. They're unstable when they're that small; they collapse quickly. Theorists such as your uncle hypothesized that these mini black holes could be portals into other dimensions.The physicist Hawking wrote about it, and your uncle has spent much of his life researching just this. He and Hawking believe mini black holes could be artificially created and used as portholes to other dimensions. Lestrade posited this happened in the past with others such as yourself. Now, you're proof that it's no theory."

"Does Moriarty know this?" 

"He must."

Thoughts flashed through my head.

"And he thinks the serum from me will get him this?"

"No, from what John told us, he tried and was unsuccessful. He was thorough. Used the serum made from your blood. He did complete transfusions. Used the sand. The sex. Nothing."

I felt dizzy recalling my time in the lab at Moriarty's mercy. I couldn't begin to imagine the horror my counterpart must have gone through alone with no one, nothing to stop Moriarty. Sherlock read the terror in my eyes. 

"I don't know if I could have made a decision like that," I said, "to go back to a world where Moriarty still walked." 

But even as I said it, I knew I would have taken the same chance to get back to my Sherlock. 

"I was torn,” Sherlock confessed. “At first I was adamant he return, but the more I learned of his story, the more I realized it wasn’t up to me. I didn't want to send him back," he said, "but I didn't want to leave you there. I knew you would try to come back. It was hideous, John! We talked about it for days and days, then the night before the concert, we never went to bed and stayed up talking, going over pros and cons. In the end, I knew the decision wasn’t mine to make. He argued he'd be fine. He kept assuring me all would be right."

"I hope that’s true for him."

"You should know at first I thought his need to go back was selfish." 

I twisted around, thinking on what Sherlock told me. 

“But he was not,” Sherlock said. “He was you, after all. He was selfless. He wanted to go back to the Sherlock he loved, so much so, he was willing to risk going back to a world where Moriarty ran unfettered.”

"I wonder if Moriarty will ever stop trying.”

"He will never stop, John. As long as Moriarty thinks he can get what he wants from you, he would continue to try. He should never be free.”

“I wonder if there’s a way. I made him  _ feel _ when I touched him. He believed I could transfer other powers.”

“Yes, your counterpart said as much, that it was chemical."

"I did it. In the lab, when I gouged Moriarty's eyes. He screamed. I hurt him. If that's true, then..." I reached over and pinched Sherlock's nipple as hard as I could. 

He yelped.

"You felt that!" I said.

"Of course I felt that!"

"I mean, you aren't supposed to feel pain."

"I do if  _ you _ pinch me," Sherlock said. "It happened before. With the other John."

"What exactly did he do to you?" I said sharply. Fuck. I threw my head into my pillow.

"He bit my tongue,” he said, blushing. “But that was it. I said it was confusing. I mean, he kept coming on to me. He's the same as you. I mean...you know...tenacious, sensitive, hot. Almost irresistible.  _ Almost _ ."

"So you're saying I'm  _ not  _ irresistible?" I mumbled into the pillowcase.

"I'm saying I managed to restrain myself until last night with  _ you _ ."

I turned my head, smiled at him. "You were  _ almost _ irresistible too." I laid on my back and stared at the hotel ceiling. Stucco. White. "What if I could make it so you could feel again all the time?" I asked him. 

"I don't think that's possible," he said, looking up at the ceiling with me 

"I do," I said, turning to him.

"How?" His blue-green eyes sparkled a bit as he waited for me to answer, darting from my own eyes to my lips and back into my eyes.

"What if we were connected, always connected," I said finally.

He started to laugh. "We already are."

"I don't mean metaphorically, you ass. I mean chemically, electrically. Tell me, Moriarty thought he could get this through sex, didn't he?" I was sorry to spoil the mood by uttering Moriarty's name again, but it couldn't be helped. I needed to make a point.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. "He told John that. I don't know if it was another form of torment, or if Moriarty was so full of himself that he wanted John to know. He was insane. He explained everything he did to John before he did it. He told John that strong emotional reactions were what would work. But he was wrong. It didn't work."

"Maybe he wasn't wrong. Not completely."

"I am not going to let you hurt yourself for me." 

"No," I shook my head. "Not pain. At least not his kind of pain. But I think he was right. I think I know. It is chemical. I really think it would work."

"What do  _ you  _ know about chemicals and black holes and electrical impulses?"

I felt it in my guts that it  _ would  _ work. 

"Just because cavemen didn't understand what fire was didn't mean they couldn't start one."

Sherlock looked unblinking into my eyes. I could see the flicker of hope inside him. He wanted it. “Maybe I don’t want to be fixed,” he said, but I saw in his face it was a lie.

"I’m sure I can make you feel again. Moriarty was right," I said. "Sex is a part of it, but there’s more to it than that."

"Moriarty tried it. He forced himself on John. He tortured him. I despised him before, but after John told me what he did... He is capable of most anything. He hurt you."

"And he's probably hurt thousands of other versions of myself in other universes. Doesn't mean he's won. Doesn't mean we can't be happy. Doesn't mean I can't do this. Let me. Let me do this."

"I love you. I trust you. I just don't want you to hope for something that might not happen."

I frowned. "And I don't want you doing this because I want it,” I said.

He laughed. "No, I do want this. I hoped and wished you’d come back to me. I just didn't plan on it."

"My practical Sherlock," I whispered.

He smiled. How I’d missed those lips. 

"Yes, well, one of us needs to have their feet on the ground."

"Try then? You'll try?" I asked.

"Of course I'll try."

"But you can't  _ just _ try. You need to believe. Believe."

"Hmm, sounds like planning to me."

The sun shone through the curtains. Sherlock sat up. His silhouette made my heart catch in my throat. 

"We need to get up," he said. "It's almost time to go to the Silverdome. I have a lot to do. A manager’s work is never done."

I ached thinking of what I'd taken from him, and I wanted to give it back. I thought about the future, our future, here in this universe. I knew the chance we'd ever get back to ours was nil.

Moriarty was here. But so were the people I loved: Harry. Sean. The band. 

Life. I could live with this life as long as I had my Sherlock. I sat up and reached for his hand.

"I'll plan then, but I still don't think sex will do it."

No, it wasn't just sex. It never was. "Make love to me in the garden in June,” I said, “when the roses are in full bloom. It will happen.”


	32. Interlude

"Um, what do you want? It's a little late for breakfast, but I know how much you like Belgian waffles." My stomach gurgled. Sherlock laughed as I flopped over on my back and looked up. He smiled down at me, all ruffled and scrambled from last night's sex. As he picked up the phone next to the bed, my stomach gurgled again.

"Ordering room service?" he asked, rubbing his traitor of a belly. "I think I'll pass since I have all the room service I need right here." He rolled into me and bit my forearm.

"Ouch! Not my arm! You gotta eat, but, um-m, not me. At least not that part of me. Not now."

He threw the covers up over his head and rolled on top of me. I knew if I didn't relent, he'd keep insisting.

"Damn it..." I sighed. “You're so thin those pointy hip bones are bruising my physique.”

"What I want isn't on the menu, and it’s unfair when what I want most is right under me in this very room."

I gave in and squirmed my hand between the sheets, inching snake-like toward his round ass to cop a quick feel o' Sherlock. He yelped out and smiled.

"I’ll take one John Watson. Main course. Not on the side. Never on the side," he said, voice deep and husky. He flung the sheets back, exposing his wicked morning hard-on.

“Eat first. Then dessert.” He saw a twinge of lust flickering in my eyes, weighing out the ' _ should I or shouldn't I _ .'  He wet his lips in concentration and longing as my fingers hovered over the buttons on the phone. For a moment there, he’d thought he’d won. Then, my stubborn streak—and hunger—came back.

“Just a quickie!” he said.

“Food first.” I punched the buttons on the phone. "I think we both need something more substantial."

He laughed. "You're pretty substantial. Maybe we could ask room service to compare. What do you think? I already know your ingredients have more protein."

"Fuck, will you shut up. They probably hear you." I took the menu from him.

"You're blushing! I can't believe you're embarrassed. Or maybe that color is something like  _ desire _ ," he said, tugging on his arm to come lie back on the bed. "Let's take a closer look. Yes, it's right here on your label.” He threw back the sheet the rest of the way, exposing  _ my  _ morning interest. "Serving size, 2 teaspoons; Servings per container, unlimited; Calories, 15; Protein, 2 grams."

I burst out laughing. "Only Sherlock Holmes would know the nutritional value of my come. Listen, maybe after. Until then, does strawberries and whip cream sound good? With the waffles that is."  

He stared up at the ceiling, resigned. "If you must. Extra strawberries with whip cream."

I crooked my neck so that my cheek muffled the mouthpiece. "Okay, I'm off hold now so be quiet… Just one minute," I said to the kitchen. I straightened up, moved to the edge of the bed and turned my back to him. He was too much of distraction. He scooted toward my warmth. I put my hand over the receiver. "Anything else?" I asked.

"Bacon." He flexed his cold feet into my back, and I jumped. 

I took my hand off the mouthpiece and turned my attention back to the phone, trying my best to ignore him. "Belgian waffles, double strawberries and whipped cream," I ordered. "Make that a pot of coffee, sugar and bacon too."

"Not rubbery. Crisp," he interrupted. He looked irritated. What was up with him? I took my feet away and rolled back on to my side of the bed.

"Sorry... I want the bacon crispy. Four pieces. Yeah and also a ham and cheese omelet. Great. Toast, too. Sourdough. How long? Okay... Thanks..."

I hung up and rolled over. "About thirty minutes," I said.

"Thirty minutes," he said. "You're in the bed. Naked. I think we could be doing something else while we wait, don’t you? Shut the curtains."

"I like the light."

"Think. You're famous. In the spotlight. You just can't parade around and do whatever you want with the shades open _naked_."

"I'm not parading... do I look like I'm parading?! I could though. Want to see?! Here... now I'm getting out of bed.  _ Now _ I'm parading. Maybe I  _ should _ close these curtains?"

"Get back in bed and quit messing around! I'm sure the press already knows you're not in your room. Although they may not be too interested in what lucky girl's bed you might have graced last night, they sure as hell would be interested to know you were in bed with me, your manager. Hello! You're a rock star with thousands of admiring fans. Fans who read and watch your every move, and who _don't_ know you're gay."

I walked back to the bed and got in. 

"Great. In the other universe we had to hide from Glenda, here we have to hide from the world?"

"John, you're not alone. Many homosexuals live their whole lives in secret. It is not something I would have chosen. But this is not my life to change. You have a much larger secret than this."

"Being immortal? That's different. I'm not hiding how I feel about you. You're a fundamental part of my life. I  _ can't  _ hide how I feel about you. I've tried that; it didn't work, remember?"

"I don't like it any more than you do. I never hid being gay before, but here, in this place, it's necessary. You are the one who so often points out the moral consequences of our actions. I can’t make a choice that might affect the other version of myself at such a profound level. I know it will be hard, but we can do this. It won’t be forever."

"You're the one who spent all those years trying to get me to face what I am, now you're telling me not to?"

"It's not just you, it's him. The other you. I'm not saying that you should deny who you are _to me_.  I never want you to hide how you feel _from me_. You just don't need to share how you feel _about me_ with everyone. Look inside yourself. Does the other version of you wish to share this with the world at this point in his career? I think you know the answer. And in the end, it’s no ones else’s business."

“Plenty of celebrities are out, Sherlock. He knows that, I know that. I won’t pretend, _we_ won’t pretend to be what we’re not. But we won’t force you to be who you’re not either.”

I bit my lip. He was making such a big deal out of this. When did he suddenly become my moral center? There had to be more to it. Maybe the other version of him held more influence into his psyche than I’d realized. My Sherlock would never deny being gay. He was always true to himself; being out and proud was one of the reasons I fell in love with him. 

"It will come out sometime. People probably already suspect," I smiled, flopping my head into his lap. "You're more important to me than a career in any universe, and there's the other band members to consider, too. Okay for now, but last night in the elevator you didn't seem to be too concerned about anyone finding out."

"I'd lost my perspective for a moment there. Temporary insanity. You have that effect. But I've been here in this reality a while; you haven't. Sean and Smith aren't open. Where we came from, I had no problem letting the world know I'm gay, but I'm not the same person here. You’re not either. It's not just about you and me. I am that Sherlock now as well, and you're that John."

"Next you'll be saying we don't belong together."

"Don't talk crazy. Of course we belong together."

"But not the same." I ran my toe up the inside of his calf.

"Yes," he said finally. "I think I have a responsibility to carry on in this universe the way our counterparts would." Sherlock smiled down at me despite himself. "We aren't them, but yet we are. I decided that I didn’t have the right to change Sherlock's life just because it's the way I think he should live it. I tried to think as you would. You should be proud of me, not arguing. I certainly hope who is in my place doesn’t change my path."

"Yeah, except, I do know what the other John felt too, and he wouldn’t hide either in the end. At some point, we’re talking to the band. I think they’ll be fine with this."

Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his head back down on his pillow.

"This whole discussion. You're talking like you expect that we're going back to our universe,” I said. “What if we aren’t there? What if all we are is here.”

“And what if we're still there? A blended version like we are here?”

“Either case, does it matter? I say we stay. If I was them, I wouldn't want to come back. They don't have to hide their feelings for each other."

"Well, they have Moriarty, Glenda and the Community to worry about," Sherlock reminded me.

He looked at the alarm clock beside the bed.

"And the rest of my family." Another reason I wanted to stay in this universe was my sister. She was alive here. “After the last time, I told myself I wouldn’t do it again. Who knows where we’d end up, Sherlock? We could be in another universe. What if we lost ourselves?”

"I don't know, John. I wonder about it all in my Mind Palace. I take it apart. I believe after a time, one becomes part of the place he or she is in, physically melding into that universe. We’ve already experienced how coming into another universe changes one’s mind. When I first came here, I didn’t want this life. I didn't make it, but every day that I'm here I feel myself becoming someone new who accepts this world. Then there's the roses.”

So that was it, that was the other part. I scratched my wrist, thinking. There was something else going on here with Sherlock that he  _ wasn't _ saying. 

"The roses," he whispered, and he leaned down and kissed me sadly.

"I can live with secrets. What I can't live without is you."

"I'm not leaving."

I wished I could see inside him right now. I tried. Nothing was clear. It was like looking into murky water, the problems at the bottom were too distorted to distinguish. I thought of my promise to him last night, to make everything as it was in the garden. I almost said it again, ' _ Follow me home, I'll make it up to you.'  _ Sometimes I get so full of myself I start to believe I can take some kind of magic wand and take all the bad away. I hoped it wasn't the roses influencing my brain like some narcotic, or at least I hoped what I did see and feel under their influence was real. I asked him to believe in me when I don't even know if I believe in myself. Now, watching him chewing his lip, I filled with doubt. He had to be reading this from me. Had to be.

"What's wrong. I mean what's really wrong."

"Breakfast isn't here yet."

"Like you care about food. I know something is seriously wrong. Talk to me, Sherlock."

"We aren’t having sex.”

“Quit joking.”

“I’m not.”

I sat up. He rested his head on my shoulder, letting the air escape from his lungs, long and slow.  He sighed as I ran my fingers through his hair.

“I can't explain when I don't understand. It's not just this place, it's the serum. The roses," he said.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here." I kissed his neck then his temple.

"I am too. I don't know how you did it. You had your own hell."

I knew, just like that, he was sorry he took the serum. He felt lost. All that I feared had come true.

"I don't know why I'm complaining,” he said. “I'm being irrational." He kissed me, and I took his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"You're not being irrational. This is real. We were both told how hard being immortal would be for you. Lestrade told us, Glenda, and Peter. Then to change universes on top of it all."

He stared down, watching as his thumb caressed my hand. Warm, confused thoughts. I wished I understood it all better.

"When I touch you like that, I feel inside you," he confessed. "Sometimes I feel things I don't want to feel."

"Like what?"

He swallowed. "How afraid you are."

I was afraid. Afraid of losing him most of all. "For me, it’s less like emotion. I see. Not all of it's good,” I chuckled, “but most of it is."

"Like how much I enjoyed burying Moriarty?" he admitted. "Not so good. I hate him. I've never hated someone so much. I’ve had rather insane thoughts go through my head since I took the serum."

"That, but I was thinking more along the lines of those lascivious visions you’ve had of me. Reminds me of those cards with all the dirty pictures on them."

Just one day ago, Sherlock was alone and distraught to the point of despair. I saw it as I kissed his mouth. “Right now what I see is this incredible light."

He kissed me back, chaste and quick. "You’re the light. Not me. I feel dark and have dark thoughts. Sometimes I hardly recognize myself." He bit the inside of his cheek and studied our hands closer as his began to tremble, and he loosened his grasp a bit. I clenched his hand tighter in return. "I thought I was going insane. At one point I told the other John I hated him. I told him to leave."

"What?"

"All he did was sing to me."

"You told him you hated him because he sang to you?"

" _ He _ was singing to me, and it wasn't  _ you _ . I told him to shut up, and he wouldn't. He kept singing."

"Sounds like _me_." I tugged at his hair.

"That's just it. He was _ trying  _ to be you. Going from one universe to the next, he got good at assuming the role of John. He took cues from others around him and used what he gleaned from inside himself. You are a smart man in any universe. He told me once this was universe number ten and counting."

"Must suck, going from one universe to another, slipping into other people's lives."

"Yes, well, seems it was his choice. I wasn't as concerned about him as I was for you and where he left you."

"With Moriarty? Not like he did that intentionally."

"Of course he did! He wanted out of there, and he got out. At least he did the right thing by going back. Sometimes I wonder if we really have a choice,” Sherlock said, and rested his chin on my head. “The other John probably believed I had some responsibility for sending him back since he knew I wanted you, not him, but it was also a compulsion. He felt the need to continue on from one universe to the next.”

“Makes me wonder,” I said. “You said he was so sure Lestrade would find me on that beach and dig me up. Like he knew because he been there so many times before. Some version of me could _still_ be there buried. Maybe he is thinking of more than himself, maybe it’s his plan to rescue us all."

Sherlock flopped back down on the bed. “He said he loved me."

"Which one of you? Christ!" I closed my eyes. How could I be jealous of myself!

"I thought at first it didn’t matter to him,” Sherlock said, caressing my leg with his long fingers. “But then, he told me how he felt about Sherlock in the last universe he was in. He loved him. Really loved him. As for me, he never acted on his feeling, at least he never pushed. I like to believe that's the real reason he took the risk to go back, because that is where he plans to stay."

"You know, we  _ seem  _ to make a decision to jump to another world— conscious or not, but I don't know. It might be whoever pulls the strings wants it to seem like we have control, but we really don't. We're just part of a grand design. When we did it on the beach, it _ wasn't _ planned, but the circumstances were perfect. Too perfect. I wonder. We both wanted out. It happened. Now you're here, I’m back. Shit. Do we control our destiny or not?"

"I want to believe we do. I'm hoping we can."

"If we could go back, would you decide not to take the serum?"

"That's not an option."

"That's not an answer."

"We can’t go back in time. Only to a different universe where we are not the same." He kissed my shoulder, then rested his head on the same spot. 

"You're right," I said. "Unless we go back to where we belong, but I’m beginning to wonder if it even possible." I slid down and put my arm around his shoulders and squeezed. We left my promise unsaid. "I missed this most, talking to you, having you to confide in, to lean on."

"I missed this too. It's easier with you here. I hate being alone. It's this whole not feeling pain. You'd think it'd be convenient," he said. "It makes for some unforeseen problems. The band was waylaid in a hotel in Cleveland, and I cut myself shaving. I didn't realize it when I answered the door. The maid took one look at me and ran screaming down the hallway."

I coughed into my hand, laughing.

"Touch is just not the same without pain. I know now what Peter meant and understand why he acted recklessly. You want to feel it. You want what you don't have."

"But you do feel when _ I  _ pinch you?"

"Yes," he said quietly. “I feel much more than that when you touch me.”

"Like this?"

"Yeah."

"And this?"

" _Yeah_."

"How about this..."

" _Hell, yeah_."

"Um-m," I said. "I think that's the door."

"Huh? What? Oh, the door. The waffles you thought I needed are finally here..."

"Fuck the waffles."

"No,  _ I'm  _ hungry now,” he said. "You need sustenance before you go on stage.” He stood up and wrapped the sheet around him. “Blame yourself; you  _ had _ to order.”

“I'll duck into the bathroom,” I said. “I wouldn't want them to get the wrong idea. You know—   _ like there was something going on between us. _ "

I raced in there and stuck my head out the bathroom door, seeing Sherlock clutching the sheet to keep it up and dragging it along, his bare ass half exposed and big feet tripping across the room as he greets room service. 

"Think strawberries and whip cream," I said before he opened the door, "and the one-hundred and one ways I can use them." 

As I shut the bathroom door, I heard him mutter, " _ Fuck. _ " Of course, he had no tip, but the busboy didn’t seem to mind.

\-----------------------------

"It's mine, not yours," I said.

"But it's good."

"Um-m, then you should have ordered the omelet and toast. At least you should use a fork."

"It tastes better in your mouth, not mine."

"Gross."

"Not gross. Come here."

"You should be full by now."

He pushed me down on the bed and clamped his mouth over mine. Personally, I liked sharing this way. Feeling his cock hard against mine encouraged my generosity.

I came up for air. And caffeine. He pulled me back down, this time pinning me to the mattress.

"Need more John," he demanded.

I bit his neck, and he purred. So much for playing hard to get. Time to switch. I pushed him off and onto his back, straddling him.

"Isn't this an interesting turn of events?" he asked, the corner of his upper lip twitching, his cat-like eyes raking over me.

"Yeah," I said, grinding my hips into him. "And I know exactly what I should do about it."

He was easy to slip open. After ceremoniously coating my fingers with Land O' Lakes butter, I took my time inching them into him. His gratifying moans and muscle spasms were incredibly rewarding. Then I turned my attention on myself.

"Stop slathering the butter on your dick and shove it up my ass, you sick bastard."

I had wanted to put some whip cream on his cock and lick it off every incredible inch, but unfortunately, it was all gone and just a few strawberries and bites of waffle were left. So I decided to follow his directions. I pulled one of his legs over my shoulder and pressed the other up into my chest.

Interesting angle. I hesitated, the head of my cock against his pucker.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked, jutting his hips up so that his cock bounced up and down on that nice firm stomach of his. Well, I wanted this to last, but he wanted it fast.

I encouraged Sherlock to help me, placed his hand on my cock, and had those long fingers help guide my cock into his waiting ass. 

I didn't want to hurt him. Still, from the way his left hand was grabbing my ass and his right was working my cock into him, I gave him what he wanted; I thrust forward,. I choked back a gasp as he clutched my butt harder.

He was so fucking tight and smooth around me. I blocked out the room and concentrated on Sherlock. The muffled echoes from the hallway gone; the smell of coffee fell away; the starched and scratchy hotel sheets chafing my knees no longer mattered. Only him. Every ripple in his chest, every spasm from his ass magnified. I knew I couldn't help but come soon.

"Do it hard. I want to feel it," he panted, and I began a steady rhythm. I looked down at him. Sweat beaded across his forehead while his eyes devoured my body, his body propped up so he could watch. I enjoyed being eaten alive this way. His gaze swallowed my heaving chest, my shaking thighs, my aching arms, then stopped, dining on my cock sliding in and out of his own ass. His moans intensified as he watched. 

"God, you're beautiful," he said, arching his back. "Keep doing that." With each of my thrusts, his cock pulsed and jerked, all flushed and engorged dribbling on to his stomach, looking almost as incredible as his eyes eating me. Shit, it made my heart miss a beat.

"Like that?" he teased, making his dick jerk. "You can touch, it you know."

He was pretty flexible and watched my cock disappear inside him. I took my hand that propped my upper half of my body off of the mattress and wrapped it around his cock and let my shoulder bear the weight of his legs. God, he had great legs with fine black hairs like silk. Strong, long, every muscle lean and defined. The back of this right thigh braced my shoulder. His other knee was anchored against my left. His hand still cupped my ass and his fingers teased my hole. Sherlock eyes grew dark as I flexed my fingers and jerked him with my tanned hands, striking against his milky skin.

He grinned, thrusted his cock into my hand. "John, my John,” he moaned. Fuck, he read my mind! His lips parted and his nostrils flared as I tightened my grip in answer.

Amazing. I decided if I concentrated on how the veins pulsed in his cock, I might be able to hold on a few minutes more. At least maybe I could get him to come first.

Maybe not. My mouth found his forearm. His salty sweat mingled with the rose's sweet, addictive taste coated my tongue. I heard him say, "Harder. Harder," and I was gone. I came, burying my cock deep, my hips jerking and an explosion behind my eyes with each spurt. After my stupor, I turned my attention to him. I had to taste more of him. He groaned as I let go and pulled out with a pop.

I took him my mouth in one gulp. My mouth. God. I'd waited to taste him like this for so long. He bunched my hair in his fists and started saying, "Thank you, thank you." If my mouth wasn't full, I would have said the same. My teeth scraped as I sucked him down.

He came in about three thrusts. I swallowed and swallowed, then licked my lips after, watching him watch me

"I love you,” he said. I reached up and tickled him under his arms.

\--------------------------

I got dressed and left his room, making sure no one saw me. I whistled as I slipped the key card through the lock on my door to get into “my” room. I hadn't wanted to leave, but we did have a show. And I had to change. Couldn't wear what I wore last night.

I dug through the clothes in the marred maple dresser. Not much there: socks, underwear, a couple pairs of faded t-shirts and hole-riddled jeans. I threw clean underwear and socks on the bed, then checked the closet. Had to be hanging up in the closet. The door squeaked as I opened it. Thumbing through the scary leather outfits, I mumbled to myself that they would probably be just as hard to take off as the one I had on last night. 

One good look in the full length mirror on the back of the closet door told me I needed a shower. My hair stuck out in odd angles. Not a new look for me, but I had to look together on stage.

Having the smell and feel of Sherlock on me while on stage would be a comfort, but I didn’t think the band would be too amused. I do some of my best thinking in the shower, and right now I needed to do a lot of thinking.

Sherlock and I needed to talk. I hated pretending he wasn’t important to me. I didn't like separate rooms or separate lives. Maybe it was best to try to go back to our universe even if we didn't know what would be there when we got there, but it  _ had  _ to be a mutual decision. All that talk earlier about what little control I felt I had probably wasn't what Sherlock needed to hear from me.

I stripped down and stepped into the shower. At least this hotel had plenty of hot water. I turned my face into the flow to feel the heat that Sherlock could no longer feel.

I felt sick. Intellectually I understood that it was Sherlock who took the serum, that I didn't force him, but he did it because he knew I wanted him with me. I couldn't change that, but maybe I _could_ get us back where we belonged. And maybe, just maybe, I could make him feel again. What bothered me most was how both of us pretended. The bag on his dresser was the elephant in the room.

I stepped out and wrapped a white hotel bath towel around my shoulders, and I stared in the mirror. 


	33. Inside the Dragon

Sherlock held the bucket out with one finger. 

I didn't understand why until the next moment when my stomach turned inside out, and I thrust my face inside that bucket. I threw up twice. Once after I looked out over the stage and wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. The second time after I registered the thousands and the media. Men behind camera cranes spidered overhead. 

"Thought you'd be needing it." Sherlock pulled a Kleenex from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. Wasn't sure if he meant the puke pail or the hanky. I wiped my mouth off with shaking hands, giving Sherlock a pathetic smile. After, I wobbled off and stood on the edge of the stage. He shadowed behind.

"Here, you might need this again," Sherlock said, setting the bucket off to the side. Sean handed me my guitar, and I struggled to tune it, whispering to myself, “ _ Don't look up, don't look up. _ ”

What a jinx. Of course I was going to fucking look.    


I did. I lifted my eyes.  _ All those people _ . The Silverdome spread out into an ocean of bodies. Sweat trickled down the small of my back. My vision clouded. My guts wrenched, and I turned tail, handing my guitar into Jimbo's waiting outstretched arms, and tried to puke into the bucket again. 

Nothing left. 

The world slowly focused like a video with someone else controlling the remote. It wasn't the first time I felt my life was some bizarre video: I watched helplessly as it played, paused, then fast forwarded. 

I picked my guitar up again, threading my head and arm through the strap, chanting: "I'm John Watson. I  _ am _ John Watson.  _ I _ am John Watson." I was beginning to buy into Sherlock's theory that we became our predecessors. I...didn't feel like me at all. 

I rested my back against one of the amps and watched. The people around me I thought I knew even smelled wrong. It was like we were taping some over-rehearsed comedy routine. When Sean bounced up and handed me a warm coke, I tipped it up to my lips like that was part of the routine too. One, two, three sips, most dripping on my shirt. Smith broke wind. Jimbo jumped back. Sean held his nose while Sherlock shook his head in disgust. All steps carefully choreographed to calm my nerves. Then I started choking. So much for calm. I bent over gasping and hacking, grasping my knees so they wouldn't buckle and leave me to fall, splat, on the stage in front of thousands.

"What are you trying to do, Smith," Sean asked, slapping me on the back, "asphyxiate him?"

I opened my eyes to see Sherlock's Dolce & Gabbana loafers staring up at me. 

"Not Smith," I gasped, "Nerves." Sean stepped away, giving me room. Sherlock leaned down, meeting my eyes.

"Breathe, John," Sherlock said, placing his hand on my back, fingers pressing lightly against my spine. "Breathe, like I taught you."

I nodded. 

"Slow and easy," he reminded me.  _ In through my nose, out through my mouth. Over and over _ . 

"That's it," he coaxed. 

Not sure if this part of the routine was what worked, or if I just didn't have anything left to barf, but I straightened up and bit my lip. I  _ did  _ feel better.

"You're sure I know all the songs?" I asked.

"For the hundredth time, yes!" 

I nodded again. As I looked out into the sea of people, I slowly pulled charged air in through my nose and out through my mouth again. It worked. First, I mentally made my way to center stage, then I took the eighteen hollow steps to the middle of the platform. I still didn't feel myself; I was invisible, the yellow stage lights barely enough to see my own hands and feet. The whole arena was black; the audience hidden. I could still hear them, feel them. The air dripped; the auditorium swelled and writhed. I felt like I'd been swallowed up by some monster. For a moment there, I knew what Jonah felt like inside that whale.

Not a whale: a dragon. The roaring, careening masses are its open jaws; the flare of the lights are the fire in its belly. I am known. I am heard. I am in love with its smoke. No more queasy stomach, no more panic, just uncoiled energy and want. How could I stay me? Why should I? I don't want to fight this dragon. I stood, euphoric before it. 

I'd heard the stories about how fame destroys people. Maybe this was what Sherlock warned about.

I looked to him off on the right hand side of the stage. Standing arms crossed, legs apart, feet planted between snaking wires, observing me behind the roadies— he looked anything but lost. He belonged. He  _ was _ The Manager. 

I wondered who I was.

Jimbo started. I heard him counting. I heard Smith's guitar and Sean sing. Their attention rested on at me. I closed my eyes, played and forgot all about the audience. Only the music and the dragon. The music took me. I let it.

This was different. New. I opened my eyes and looked around at the rest of the band. To them this was just another gig. To me, it was defining. On an altar, god-like. Or maybe I was the sacrifice. Either way at that moment, I didn't care. 

It was the best time of my life. 

When we took a break to change sets and take a breather, I found I didn't want to let go. I went to speak, but I couldn't, my voice cracking uselessly instead. When I approached Sherlock, he seemed to avoid me and looked nervous. Maybe I was spoiled from all his attention before. He kept busy attending others the way he had me— I felt slighted. I knew he was stepping back. Not getting too close. For those moments I grew afraid, I became less sure that this was part of the act, and fearful that this might be what he wanted. 

I needed to stop thinking, put these doubts out of my mind. I became impatient to get back on stage, to feel the way I did before, where I was wanted.

When Sherlock ordered us, "On! Now!" I bolted out, not looking behind. This last set, the applause, the stomping vibrated through me. Making music had always been as intimate for me as sex. This experience was crude and rough. Different from the other. It was more like being fucked hard, so hard that it hurt, so hard I couldn't think. It was that good.

And like a good fuck, it ended too soon. 

It didn't occur to me until I was offstage and running back to the bus how I still felt high. No withdrawal. As I climbed up the steep bus steps, I wondered how long before I bottomed out.

Most of the band and roadies were already on board. I took a seat in the back and watched for Sherlock as I listened to the bus idle. 

I sprawled out, legs in front on the seat. I closed my eyes for a while, now and then glancing out the window and waiting. Jimbo came up the aisle and sat down in back of me and patted my back. I heard Smith laugh. Sean looked nervous, which got me nervous.

"He played better than average today, wouldn't you say?" Smith commented. I turned my head and looked back. Sean stared at me, looking more like some analyst than my brother.

"Do you feel it too?" I asked him.

"What?" asked Sean.

"This high, this bubble that wants to explode but keeps expanding instead," I explained. "Don't you feel it?"

"That? Yeah, but not like I used to," he said. "For you, it never seems to go away. You'd think each time was your first."

I watched him carefully. Something was up.

"Yeah," said Smith, "must be nice to be a virgin every night."

That got my attention.

"Funny you should put it like that," I admitted. "Still, deflowering isn't the metaphor I'd use for that experience."

"A forceful divestment of your innocence?" Sean suggested, sitting up in the seat.

"Closer," I said.

"Maybe you're a used up whore who wants more," Bill said, slapping me hard across the shoulders. "I hear that's what happens to musicians who only get their action on stage.

"Are you suggesting I'm not getting any?" I asked.

"Last I knew you weren't," Bill laughed. "Maybe if you weren't so particular. But there was some talk that you didn't sleep in your room last night. Is this something you can share with the guys? I mean, if you  _ are _ getting some action, you might want to elaborate on the details. Was she taller than you? Prettier? Big knockers? Come on, tell us…"

"Fuck. Like I'd tell you."  I watched the front steps of the bus. 

"So you did get lucky finally," he said, poking me in the arm. "Shit. I don't believe it!"

"What's not to believe?" I mumbled.

Sherlock stepped on to the bus, and as the doors to the bus shut, I flashed a stupid grin.

"Christ. It can't be…" Ol’ Bill said, "I read this all wrong!"

"What the hell does that mean?" I laughed.

"Forget it," he said. " I don't  _ want  _ to know. No details for me..."

"I want details!" Smith said, springing forward.

"Shut up," Sean said, pushing Smith back down in his seat.

Sherlock knelt down next to the bus driver, head close to his, speaking to him low, his face tight. Then he stood up. He didn't look at me once. Not good. I stopped laughing. Sherlock stopped and bent over, speaking to two of the roadies. They both got up, mumbling and left the bus. I turned back to John and the others. Then I noticed Sean watching out the window. My eyes followed what Sean was looking at. It was Moran and Lestrade, talking to a few of the roadies. What were they doing here? 

What the fuck was wrong? 

"What the hell is going on?" yelled Smith.

"Change of plans," Sherlock announced, scanning the faces of roadies and band members. He eyes met mine last of all. "We're heading out now. Sid and Carl will get everything out of the hotel. Sorry."

"Is something wrong?" Smith asked.

"Just an over-enthusiastic fan," he answered. "We didn't want to take any chances. There's nothing to be concerned about— just being cautious." He looked straight at me this time. The door opened again, and Moran got on. I watched as he took a seat behind the driver.

The bus started to move. Sherlock grabbed the seats on either side of him, steadying himself as the bus made a sharp turn, then he walked down the aisle and sat next to me without a word.

I kicked the back of the seat in front of us and scratched the inside of my wrist, scooting down in the seat trying to get a good look at Sherlock's face.

"What's wrong?" I whispered. 

His hand gripped the edge of the seat, and I rested mine over the top of his.  _ Shit _ . The only reason why came down to one word:  _ Moriarty _ . I squeezed his hand.

"Let's move up a few seats where we can talk," he said under his breath. I nodded then followed him. I shot a quick look back at Sean. His lips were pressed tight together and his jaw clenched, staring at Moran. He knew it was something bad, too.

The others looked on with interest, except Bill who mumbled something like, "I was fucking right about who he got lucky with..." and Smith shot back: "Will you shut up!" I wished it was something as simple as a lover's quarrel. 

We found a seat toward the front the bus opposite from Moran and away from the roadies and the band. 

"Is it Moriarty?" I blurted out.

"No," he answered. "But you're close. Lestrade told me it's some men from the Community wondering what happened to Moriarty. They know Moriarty had you. They claimed they just want to talk with you privately. They even suggested you come with them."

My heart thumped hard. My face grew hot. Panic attack. Shit. "No fucking way. I'm not going back there," I said.

"Don't worry. Your uncle told them there was no way they're taking you there or talking with you without us present. But he's concerned. The Community is not above taking you by force."

"It's happening again. I don't believe this." I took three deep breaths and closed my eyes. "They don't want Moriarty," I said. "They could give a shit about him. They want what he had, what he knew. I’m it." 

"We will distract them," Sherlock said. "Your absence would not go unnoticed. You can’t disappear without questions being asked. We will confront them. If they think there's nothing to get from you, then Moran thinks maybe they'll leave us alone."

"That’s wishful thinking."

"Since when do I rely on flights of fancy, John? Your uncle agrees. He made it clear; we should chose the time and the place. Plan. We will do this carefully."

"This is never going to end, is it?"

"Relax. As I said before, it's not like you're any guy; they can't just nab you off the streets. You're a celebrity; you'd be missed. We were thinking someplace public for the meeting."

"I can’t wait."

I looked out the window. Dark. We were on I-94 now. The city lights no longer obscured the stars, and they twinkled overhead like any other night, with no regard to the troubles of our puny little lives.

\----------------------------

Long ride and stiff legs. The house was open. We were home, at least home as in the Lestrade estate. Same winding stairs with Mica's essence filtering through every minute corner. I knew we should talk to Moran and my uncle, but I pulled Sherlock up the stairs and locked the door.

Sherlock in  _ my  _ room. The windows open. The room smelled like the garden, like the roses.

I pulled his trousers down over his hips, feigning little regard for his hard-on. Sherlock threw himself down on the bed while I stood at the foot, pretending his writhing body with the jutting 90-degree cock wasn't in front of my cool blue eyes. Sherlock knew better, however. He took his cock in hand and fisted it, jerking it and staring into my soul with eyes that would make a frigid housewife cream her pants.

_ Fuck that. _ I ripped off all my clothes without regard. Acting ambivalent wasn’t working for me anyway. I crawled on my hands and knees facing him, stopping just below his knees, and I watched, then reached for his beautiful cock.

He slapped my hand away, then gripped himself tighter, fisting himself. A perfect bead of precome formed on the tip. It was like an invitation. I bent my head down and with the very tip of my tongue, I slowly licked around the head of his cock. He didn't slap me away this time. Instead his right hand massaged the back of neck. I savored the salty taste, felt his thick vein pulse beneath as I carefully swirled my tongue around and around, evading that perfect, painful pearl at the head of his prick. He slowed his desperate pumping, his fingers brushed my bottom lip with each stroke.

I closed my eyes then slid my tongue up his slit to my prize. I heard voices in the hall. All that mattered was inside this room. I filled my mouth up to his fist with his length, rubbing the ridged roof of my mouth hard with each stoke. He loved it. His thighs strained, his back arched with his efforts not to thrust into me on my gulps. My jaw popped. He hiccupped and held on to the base of his cock for dear life, his thumb pushing against his balls, his long, slender fingers white. I opened my eyes to see my cock pink and rock-hard, bobbing helplessly between my legs. There was time for that after I finished with what was in my mouth.

Seeing inside him at this moment was the biggest turn-on. When he was right on the edge, I could give him release or keep it from him and make him quiver and moan like Sherlock had kept me at that point. He read me so well for so many years, it didn't surprise me he could pull the same magic in bed. He knew me better than myself. It was time to show him I could do it as well.

I'd hidden from myself for far too many years. Sadly, I knew others better than myself, held their needs first. But when it came to this, to making love, the feel of him trembling and holding the moment, I was greedy, selfish. I wanted to make it last as much for me as for him.

As he rocked and jerked his cock inside my mouth, his eyes begging me to let him come, I stopped for a moment. He didn't say a word. Nothing. He wanted it to last too. Wanted to come harder, feel the spasms rack through every muscle in his body. I shoved my index finger up his ass and he came. His ass pulsed around my finger as I buried his cock in the back of my throat and swallowed. His gasps and groans filled my head like music.

He sat up and his lips crushed my mouth, whiskers scratching my face. 

"You taste so good," he said.

"That's because I taste like you."

Then I remembered what was waiting for us downstairs. His hand met my hard, desperate cock.

"I like it when you don’t shave. You should do it more often.”

“I was distracted this morning.”

“Let's stay here a while," I said, "in bed together." 

He stroked me slowly. "Sure, whatever you want." But we knew it was a lie, letting it live in our heads just for a few moments more. 

I closed my eyes and felt his hands moving. God, so good. I came fast. Too fast. Then we had to go downstairs.


	34. Community of Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to MrBotanyB for tightening up the end of this (does that sound dirty? I hope so).

I woke hearing a loud bang downstairs. Glenda shouting. Glass breaking. So much for planning a meeting in a neutral place. We both bolted out of bed, grabbing our clothes off the floor and throwing them on. I ran out the bedroom door with my shirt half on and Sherlock right behind me. We raced down the stairs.

This was our home invaded. Our sanctuary defiled. People we loved threatened. Of course we ran toward the action.

At the bottom of the stairs, the warning came too late. My uncle yelling, “Run!” and Sherlock pulling me back as I felt a sharp pinch in my chest. I stared down at the red end of the tranquilizer dart. I yanked it out as I dropped to the floor.  The last thing I remembered was Mycroft’s face in mine.

\----------------

I woke in a corner of an empty room. This was not the same place the Community had taken me before. Everything is shiny. Shiny white and cold. Cold white walls, white ceiling, white door. The floor tiles were just as white and just as cold. My head pounded, making my vision hypersensitive. I had my clothes on at least, and Sherlock was there in the room with me, still unconscious in the other corner.

I crawled across the room towards him and watched as tiny white camcorder mounted in another corner of the room followed my movement. Before I could even reach Sherlock, the door opened. Sherlock’s eyes popped open and watched as two figures came through. Without a touch, I knew their dispositions. Greed, need, malice. No ounce of empathy. They wanted power.

And I saw how they intended to get it. _Sherlock_. It took me two tries to get to my feet to get to him. But when I did, I knew the uselessness of our situation. Turning to the tallest one, I said, "Just leave him alone. I'll go with you."

Sherlock pulled himself upright and rested his back against the wall. “John, no.”

A third man stepped into the room. “Good to see you again, little brother.”

Sherlock nodded back, his eyes narrowed. “Added a few pounds since I saw you last.”

The other two goons got on either side of me, grabbing me by the arms and led me out the door with Sherlock cursing his brother.

\----------------

At least they let me sit in a chair, even though it was hard and rigid and it farted when I sat down. Sherlock’s crazy brother. Here. And he wanted to _talk_. Well, okay, I thought, I'll talk. The trick was to tell him enough to make him happy but not enough to do any damage. While Mycroft might be a tad insane, he was also as smart as Sherlock.

They asked me simple questions. What's my favorite color? What did I do on my eighteenth birthday? Probably baseline data of some sort, fishing to find out which John occupied the seat in front of them. Although asking me when I lost my virginity was going too far, I answered. Mycroft's eyes drilled into me from over his laptop as he entered the data.

How much would it hurt if I did reveal I was another version? It occurred to me the truth might literally set us free.

“Enough of the idiotic questions. I am capable of some extrasensory marvels, but I’m not the same John who was here a few days ago.”

“How does the time you came from differ?”

“For one thing, you’re not such a bad guy in the other time. I hear you’re rather unbalanced in this one.”

Mycroft sighed dramatically. “Mr. Watson, just do something any omnipotent being should be able to do. Move the lamp. Turn this water into wine. Blot out the sun.”

“Right. How about I make the a huge crack in the earth so all of you can fall into the abyss?” I probably shouldn’t have said that. Mycroft’s two minions looked terrified. “I’m kidding. I can’t do that. I could do the lamp thing. Maybe the water into wine. Blotting out the sun? Not happening. At least not today.”

What the hell? Why not make the chair collapse under Mycroft? Sherlock would appreciate that! Just so Mycroft wouldn't think he needed to stick to his diet better, I sent his laptop flying across the room. That seemed to impress his minions, but Mycroft? Not so much.

"Psychokinetic..." the minion in the dark blue suit said, helping Mycroft off the floor.

“That was entirely uncalled for, Mr. Watson.”

"Yes, well, you can't keep me here," I said, reaching. "You know I'll be missed. I have a concert in Chicago in two days."

"Mr. Watson the rock star thinks his fans will save him," the taller minion said. "You don't matter here. The Community can make anyone disappear. Remember Harold Holt? Jimmy Hoffa? Amelia Earhart?"

"That's crazy," I laughed. "Are you serious? Next thing you'll be saying is that Paul McCartney's really dead, and you replaced him. Or that was really Elvis I saw at McDonald's."

"Who told ya?" the tall one joked.

"What else can you do?" the smaller one asked. "Can you disappear?"

"I don't know, _Donald_." He was too stupid to realize I knew his name without him telling me, but it wasn't lost on Mycroft or his buddy.

"Telepathic, too. Interesting."

"Sure, _Alfred_."

"Smart ass. Let's see if you're clairvoyant too," Alfred said, hitting me in the face. "Guess not. You would have ducked." I spat the blood out on Alfred's nice white shirt.

"Shit, that hurt," I swore.

"Feels pain," Mycroft said. I noticed the video camera following the action in the room.

"Smart observation," I said sarcastically. “Are you really Sherlock’s brother? because I thought you were supposed to be some kind of genius like him. Guess not.”

With a blink of my eye, the lamp flew off the table and busted against the back of Alfred's head. That was messy. Also scared him. And pissed him off. Really pissed him off, so he decided to see how much pain I really felt. He kicked the chair out from under me and stomped on my hand with the end of his boot heel, then kicked me in the face. Damn stupid jerks who think they're urban cowboys with their steel-tipped boots. The blood spurting from under my eye stopped immediately. The speed of how quickly I healed scared the shit out of him and me. Mycroft, however, was fascinated.

Damn, trying to kick someone’s eyes out of their head fucking hurt.

"You really need to be more cooperative," Donald said, "or we'll experiment on your friend."

For some reason, I couldn't read Mycroft at all, or else he didn’t care they were thinking of harming his brother.

"You need to do a lot better if you want to keep your friend from losing a few fingers," Alfred said. I stared at him. They don’t know Sherlock is Mycroft’s brother.

"Alright, what do you want?"

"Tell me what Alfred is thinking."

"Easy, he wants to stomp my head. Can I sit up? The floor is cramping my shoulder."

"Stand," Mycroft said, giving me his hand and pulling me to my feet. I gasped. He wasn’t crazy. And the bastard cared.

"Can we cut off his head next?" asked Donald. Christ, he was serious!

"Not today," Mycroft said. "There’s much more to learn before we resort to that option."

Donald looked at me stupidly.

"You can’t learn much from a dead man,” I said. “I'd be dead, Donald." Well, maybe not, but I didn't really want to end up a head in a jar like Nixon on Futurama.

"Well, if we can't do that, then at least do that injection thingy," Donald suggested.

"Thingy?" I laughed, staring at Mycroft. " _Thingy?_ Such advanced intellect! The Community’s standards aren’t too high, are they Mycroft?”

Donald laughed along with me. Then he pulled a syringe from his jacket. Dumb and dumber stepped up on either side of me.

I stopped laughing just before Alfred hit me in the face again. He was getting too good at that. Big and dumb _can_ come in handy.

I wasn't in a hurry to find out what was in the syringe. Reading Donald was easy enough. It wasn't the serum, but he didn’t understand what it was. Only that it would hurt. Although it was a clear fluid, like the serum, Tweedle Dumb seemed to believe it might even be lethal. I couldn't read any indication from my good friend Mycroft. I wasn’t sure how to read him completely, but he wasn’t what he appeared.

"We've noticed toxins given intravenously are difficult, if not impossible, for many immortals to reverse," Donald said. "You revived from the sedative quickly. You should have been out a good day not a couple hours. We wanted to see what _this_ would do."

Oh, so he knew what was in it. I figured, why make it easy for them? I started struggling, elbowing Donald hard in the nose. The crunch was satisfying even if it prompted Alfred to twist my arm and wrench me to the floor on my knees. At least I could see into him now too. There wasn’t much there.

"What?" I asked. "No Drano?"

"No," Donald answered. "Strychnine."

"Of course." Talking to these two wasn't working. I looked right into the fucking video camera. "What if it kills me?" I asked it. "That's a bit counterproductive, don't you think?"

“It won’t,” Mycroft said.

Donald jabbed it in my arm. That stung.

"Missed the day your instructor went over injections, right Donald?" I said.

"I'm not a fucking nurse. I’m a doctor." He tossed the syringe in the wastebasket. A long shot and right in. Not bad. Mycroft didn’t seem worried at all.

"Nice bedside manner. Where’d you get your degree from? Walmart?”

Donald planted his foot in the middle of my back and shoved me face first into the floor.

“What happened to your Hippocratic oath?" I asked.

I tried pushing myself up with my arms and his foot came down in the middle of my back, and my chin hit the floor. "Floor's good," I mumbled. "I'll stay on the floor."

He stepped back next to the other two, leaned against the stainless steel cart and watched. I recalled the effects of strychnine poisoning, remembering it was pretty painful. Something about muscle spasms so severe you suffocate. Not that I _could_ suffocate. Even if I didn't die, it would hurt like a bitch. I started getting anxious, recalling that was the first sign. Actually, I was already anxious. More like twitchy. Not good.

As my stomach began to tighten, I thought aloud, "This is bullshit." I expected the Community to do the same thing as they did the last time— drain my blood, analyze it, run some kind of mad scientist experiments. I just didn't see the logic in trying to kill me.

 _"Why?"_ I asked aloud, looking into the fucking camera, then at Mycroft.

“Mr. Watson, you don’t need to ask. You already know.” I looked into his eyes, only to have them slam me in the face. _If I could just get out of here,_ I thought. That's what they wanted! _Jump. Leave. Change._ I almost laughed. _Almost._ Joke was on them. I’d never leave Sherlock behind. Even if I did want to, I couldn’t. No sand. No excitement.

I knew nervous agitation was another symptom, but I had that long before Donald gave me the injection. How long had it been? My muscles in my arms and legs _were_ tightening. That, and I was sweating buckets. Odd, I didn't remember profuse sweating being part of the symptoms. The fact that I was coherent didn't make sense either. Actually, the floor was starting to feel nice, so cool, so smooth against my cheek. I ran my hand across it. Thick wax, high gloss. I started to like that it was white. Fuck, the floor was getting me aroused. I could smell their sweat in the room, and I had a familiar taste in the back of my mouth.

Lights sparked in the back of my brain. The smell of my own blood and Mica oozed from my pores. This wasn't strychnine poisoning. _Fool the fools to fool me._ Nice trick.

Then Victor Trevor walked in. I didn't know if I should feel relief or apprehension. I couldn't help but feel hope. Peter, or Victor, or whatever name he went by here in this time, got me away from the Community once before. By now my heart was pounding and blood was rushing to my groin. _Thank God I'm on my stomach_.

Peter knelt down next to my head and whispered, "I guess by now you know what we gave you."

I nodded.

"It was my idea to give you serum instead— make you think it was strychnine. You're far too handsome to die."

"Fuck you, Peter. Or is it Victor?"

"Well now, since we've never been introduced, you either read my mind or you've known me before, which is it?" he whispered.

"You're so smart. You guess."

"How well _did_ you know me?" he said, licking my ear. That was bad. I started scooting away from temptation. "Not that well?” he said. “Too bad. Maybe we could get acquainted in this time?" He pushed me over onto my back. "Is that growing exponentially or are you just extremely happy to see me?"

"Get away." 

"What? You don't want me to talk nerdy to you?"

I couldn't focus. “No?”

"You don't sound so sure," he said. I strained my neck to look into his face. He looked like a Picasso. 

"I'm positive. Fuck, what else was in that?"

"An interesting concoction. We added etorphine, didn’t we, Mycroft? It’s used to knock out elephants. You should have been out by now. Amazing..."

\--------------------

I woke up. Life was fuzzy, but I could see Sherlock clearly enough, sitting next to me, legs crossed. Back in the same white room. I wondered why anyone would want an all white room. What the hell was John Lennon thinking? Too bright. It felt like my brain was trying to push its way out of my skull while my cock was trying to push its way out of my pants.

Being injected with that shit is like being in heat. And Sherlock was right next to me just realizing I was conscious.

"I was worried," he said, leaning toward me. "While you were out, I had the pleasure of meeting some of our gracious hosts."

Although his long fingers pressed along my spine reassuringly, it felt like $200 erotic back rub.

"We’ve got to get out of here," I said, as fingers moved up under my shirt. I turned over. It was so easy to pull him down on top of me. I had my tongue down his throat before he knew what hit him.

He pulled away, breathing hard. "John, did you forget the camera?"

I looked into it. _Shit._

"I can smell it," he said, voice rumbling. "What did they do?"

I grabbed him and pulled him on top of me again, his ear pressed against my mouth. "They shot me full of serum and tranquilizer," I whispered. "Made me believe it was poison. They were trying to force me to _do it_."

"Have sex?"

"No, well..., yes, maybe that was the purpose. I don't know. But their main intent was to get me to switch universes or times."

It was all I could do not to rock my hips and thrust up into him. I could feel his cock through my jeans, pressed against mine. He was almost as hard as I was.

"They wanted to observe you jumping universes, and if successful, they would have had another vulnerable version of you to prey upon."

"Yes," I whispered. I couldn't help myself, I nipped his earlobe. "Peter is here."

"Yes," he moaned, grasping my cock, "he is."

"No, not that Peter. Peter _Deal_ or Victor Trevor. I don’t know which name he’s going by. But he’s here."

His eyes widened. "He can help us escape."

"I wouldn't count on it. He's not the same person he was in our universe." I closed my eyes and put my arms around him. He felt so warm, so good as I buried my face in his curls. "I want you.”

“He couldn’t be _that_ different.”

“Mycroft is.”

I mashed my mouth into his. God, he started sucking my tongue. I went from semi-hard to rigid in one second.

Sherlock pulled back. "I want you too, but I don't think that's such a good idea." His breathing was ragged.

I ground my crotch into his.

"I've got it... it's in my pocket..." he said frantically.

"God," I moaned into his ear, "you're such a tease. I've got something in my pocket too." I squirmed harder against him, his cock rolled over mine and butterflies danced in my stomach. Wanted more, so I started reaching inside his front pocket...almost there... _What's this?_

Then my mind shorted out.

"No,"  he rasped, grabbing my wrist. "I don't mean my cock, you idiot. The sand. I have it."

My hand flew back like I'd touched a hot stove, then I rolled off him. "You're just telling me this _now_?" was all I could say.

"They have to know that I have the sand," he said. "They searched us. They must have wondered."

"Yeah," I said. I tried to focus in on his eyes. Such beautiful eyes. Why couldn't I see them? Just a few moments before, I was fine.

"They probably haven't connected it completely or else they wouldn't have done that to you earlier," he whispered. "John?" He grabbed my shoulder, fingers digging in. “John, stay with me. John, are you there?”

"No."

"What’s happening?"

"Everything is blurry, jumbled. I can’t think... must be the tranquilizer."

Sherlock went quiet, then hugged me to his chest.

"That's it," he said. "It's the sand. You aren’t going without me. You touched it. You must have! It felt like you were leaving me. You were fading before my eyes. Sit up. You’re coming back."

"Nothing’s changed." I was dizzy, but I managed. “We’re still here, and you’re still with me.”

"Listen," he said, scooting up next to me and whispering in my ear, "what if you did it? Got us out of here?"

"To where?” I whispered back. “We'd probably still be in the Community in the other universe. We might end up worse off than here."

"That is possible."

"And then there's them," I said lamely.

"We would put them in our stead. Not good."

"Not good," I nodded.

He looked into my eyes, calm. "Then we will get out using our wits."

"Somewhere in another universe, another version of us is having this same conversation," I whispered.

Sherlock tensed. Shoes clicking against tile in the hallway echoed into our room.

The door slowly opened. Victor, Mycroft, his two minions, and a young woman stepped into the room. She was young and her face was down. I held my breath as I watched her chin slowly rise. I looked into her eyes. We had a way out.

"Molly," I whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the people who have continued to read this. Please comment and let me know you're all still out there. I'll love you for it. :)


	35. Something in My Pocket

Our salvation stood in the doorway. 

As she looked into our eyes, her own went from spark to fire.

"How do you know my name?" she asked. We didn't answer. Instead, Sherlock gripped the metal tray in front of him and deduced her from mousy-brown head to reasonable-footwear feet. She did likewise, mouth set firm as she scanned first him, then me. Her face betrayed her. The same good-hearted soul beneath. Eyes filled with horror and pity, softening as they met mine. The Molly I knew was in there.

"You're the one, aren't you?" she asked. 

Trevor pushed her aside and stepped between us. It pissed me off, and I had the sudden urge to punch him.

"He knows a lot more than he's telling us," he said to Mycroft. "From what I saw on video, he has a remarkable ability."

"Rather transparent," Sherlock interrupted. “At least John's diaphanous state was temporary, unlike the rest of you in this room. Miss Hooper excluded.” He smiled. At Molly. The fucker was flirting with her! Molly actually blushed. 

"Can I hit the smart-ass?" Alfred asked.

At least he asked this time. Trevor said no, and Alfred went from fist clenching to jaw spasms.

"Explain how you time travel," Trevor demanded.

"Time travel? What are you talking about?” I shot back.

"You're reasonably intelligent fellow," Victor said, leaning back against the wall. "And Holmes is a genius. You’re a terrible liar. You know exactly how. Explain, or we’ll have to resort to other means."

"Are you taking your euphemisms from second-rate detective novels? This is a waste of time! Why don’t you just let Alfred pummel me?" Sherlock asked. 

Alfred seemed to think it was a suggestion because he grabbed the front of Sherlock's shirt and slammed him against the wall. Before Alfred could throw a punch, Sherlock slipped his ankle around his leg and brought him to the floor. Alfred ended up face first with his arm twisted behind his back and Sherlock smiling at me. Donald came to the rescue, gun out, but I threw all my weight into him, and we stumbled to the floor. I twisted his wrist, rammed my knee into the middle of his back, and took his Glock.

Unfortunately, Victor was packing too, his gun aimed at Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock glared at Victor, then raised an eyebrow and brushed off his shirt as he stood. Molly looked from Victor to Sherlock, obviously torn as to what she should do.

“I’d hate to put a hole in his chest, but it wouldn’t be permanent, would it?” he asked, stepping closer. “Let’s see what will happen, shall we?”

“No!” I shouted. Behind my eyes I saw Sherlock cold on the ground in Lestrade's woods again. I dropped the Glock to floor.

“I knew you were smart.” He’d stepped into Sherlock’s bubble. I stepped forward too. “Ah, ah, ah, I wouldn’t do that,” he warned, then ran the muzzle of the gun along Sherlock’s jawline. He reached out and grabbed his hair, jerking his head and forcing Sherlock to meet his eyes. 

Hate and jealousy swelled up in my gut and my heart pounded, but I stood in place. This was a nightmare. Why did I drop the gun? “Let him go, you bastard,” I snarled, jaw working.    


“You turn an interesting shade of crimson when angry. You want your boyfriend safe? Talk.” 

Alfred and Donald slipped next to me, one on each side. I tried pushing my weight against the Alfred, but he was like a tree. Without a running start, I didn’t have a chance. Fuck, and he smelled like home-baked bread. The least he could do is smell the part like Donald did, all whiskey and cigars. Alfred grabbed my arms. 

"Stop squirming, you little queer."

"At least I don't smell like the Pillsbury Doughboy!"

“Mr. Watson,” Mycroft said. “Be reasonable.” 

"Don’t tell them a thing," Sherlock hissed. 

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Always so difficult," Trevor said, as rolled his hips into Sherlock's. I thought I'd be sick. Mr. Poppin' Fresh jerked me back, both my arms locked painfully behind me. "You still have no manners even. I know we’ve had a parting of ways, but no need to be so rude. Maybe a lesson is in order. My two friends here will teach you to be more respectful. Or better, I could give you a lesson or two. I remember when you used to like my lessons."

"That was somebody else. You are nothing like the Peter I know."

“That’s Victor,” he said, licking Sherlock’s face. Molly looked as disgusted as I felt.

“Mr. Trevor, that is quite enough,” Mycroft said, command in his voice.

Trevor back straightened in annoyance, but he obeyed and stepped back. "How do you go from one time to another? How is the sand part of it?" 

Sherlock looked to Mycroft for the first time and addressed his brother in his most bored tone. "Tell this imbecile neither I nor John are scientists. We do not know, nor could we begin to fathom how it works."

"Enough!" Mycroft said. "This is a waste of time. You’ll get nothing from them like this. Molly, the serum." 

Her head jerked to his as he said her name. She hesitated before she reached inside her lab coat. 

"Don't do it," I begged. Our eyes met.

She pursed her lips, then handed the syringe to Trevor. One shot of that and Sherlock wouldn't care who was squeezing his ass. 

"Fuck this," I said under my breath, and hammered my heel into the top of Alfred's foot. He howled and jumped back. Donald’s answer was to punch me the face. 

"This is fruitless," Mycroft observed. “You aren’t escaping.

"Oh, do get on with it," Sherlock said, bored. “I could use a good fix.” He flinched as Victor punched the needle into his shoulder like a dart. 

"No," I choked. The lights flickered. Molly spun around, amazed, then looked at me. I wasn’t sure if it was me or Sherlock. God, the serum was working already. His eyes turned black. Trevor was literally licking his lips, leering at Sherlock. I couldn't let this happen.

"We have to be together for it to work," I blurted out. "It’s the only way."

"You mean fuck?" Trevor asked, and he took his time leering at Sherlock’s bulge growing in his jeans. God, please, I thought. Then I remembered the sand. 

“Must I be here for this,” Mycroft said, rolling his eyes. 

Victor rammed the gun under Sherlock’s jaw as he slipped his hand inside Sherlock's front pocket and drew out the plastic bag. 

Sherlock moaned, "Mycroft, stop this." 

“Enough,” Mycroft said, stepping up to Trevor and taking the bag from his hand. “As much as I’d like to see you both slip into another time, we need to know how it works.” Mycroft nodded to Donald. “Take this to get it analyzed.” Donald left with the bag in hand. 

I stumbled back with relief that the sand was gone, but Sherlock’s essence filled the room. Mica called. If I could only give them taste of what I could do, maybe we could make a plan and get out of this mess.

Then again, the way Sherlock stared at Mycroft puzzled me. We no longer had the sand thanks to him. Mycroft had to know it was ordinary sand. In fact, he’d most likely already had it analyzed. And Molly. She knew something. With one last look over her shoulder, she left.

Trevor was keeping his distance from Sherlock, who was hurting in a way only the serum supplies. Alfred’s grip loosened, and I saw my chance and rammed my elbow into his nose. He screamed like a girl.

I was satisfied with myself for all of one second, then he hit me in the jaw so hard I saw all my previous lives flash before my eyes. 

"Come on," said Mycroft, "you can have fun some other time. And clean yourself up!"

“You motherfucker,” Alfred said to me. “You will pay for that.” 

Sherlock laughed as blood splattered on Alfred’s polished shoes. He pinched his nose to stop the flow as he limped out of the room with the others.

The door shut and locked behind them. At last, I turned to Sherlock. I didn't need to ask how he was. He gasped for breath, palming his crotch. Stalking across the room, he leaned in and pinned me to the wall with a predatory smile.

"Very horny," he whispered in my ear. 

"You know they’re watching." I looked up at the camera. My breath hitched as he rubbed his cock into mine, hands clutching my hips. I could smell the roses on his breath. From thigh to chest, every point of contact, I tingled, my body chemically reacting.

"Let them," he said, unzipping my jeans. He reached in, hand so sure. He grasped my cock with his long fingers and flexed them, thumb running along the head. My mind burned, my chest pounded. I thought I'd come apart as he scraped his nails up and down the shaft. 

"God, yes," I whimpered, biting my lip to keep from calling out his name as fisted me tighter.  The room reeked of roses.

"I'm going to come just listening to you moan," Sherlock said, licking my ear. 

I was trapped with him in that desperate place. Feeling him, hearing him, made me all the more desperate. The drive to be close to him, inside and out, was irresistible.

My hips jerked as he increased his tempo. We slid down the wall to the floor. I unbuttoned and slipped down his pants. I wanted him inside me. He hooked his arm around my neck, mouth opening. I lowered myself down on his cock. I didn't care where we were. Time, place didn't matter, all I understood was him, his mouth sucking my neck, my lips until my heart burned, his arms around me, helping me bounce on his dick while I clawed at his back, begging. 

I fucked my cock into his fist, flurries of rapid pumping with short jerks. The stimulation builds perfectly. He’s wrecking me inside. I’m impaled. We come. The blinding light behind our eyes merges. We see ourselves. I held his head as he sobbed into my neck in relief, whispering how much he loved me.

I sang softly, a spontaneous ode of joy from inside my heart. He sniffed and I held him as I slipped off his lap and kissed. 

It didn’t last. It never does. We knew what was coming from behind the door. The cold. 

The void that was Moriarty entered the room. We held each other tighter; a shiver racked Sherlock as he raised his head. It didn't matter that we were semi-dressed with come smeared on us both. It was our proof of existence, proof we belonged to each other.

Although the door was to my back, I could see Moriarty as if through my own eyes. He was alone. The door slammed shut, and he stepped behind us with purpose. I turned to face him. The cold barrel of this gun met my temple. 

"This is cozy," he muttered. The barrel drew a shivering trail from my temple to my mouth. The cold steel tugged at my bottom lip in an obscene caress.

"Don't reach for the gun," he said to Sherlock, "or I'll pull the trigger. I know he heals amazingly well, but I don't think he could survive getting his head blown off at point blank range."

"A gun? Again? This is getting old," Sherlock said.

"Open your mouth," he ordered Sherlock. 

“Don’t,” Sherlock said. “It isn’t a look that agrees with me.”

He hesitated. He knew what the alternative was and I shook my head no, but he opened his mouth and Moriarty pushed it inside. His eyes fluttered shut. He did it for me. So soon after, I felt so close to him, my lips around the barrel. The metal bit into the roof of my mouth. 

"Isn’t he magnificent?” Moriarty said. “Lips made for sucking cock." He reached inside his coat pocket, eyes raking over our open flies and come-smeared clothes. He held a test tube out for me in his other hand. He handed it to me.

“Be a good boy and scrape a bit of your semen from your luscious spent cock into the tube for me.” He handed me a cap, then took the test tube. 

Sherlock jerked and the gun twisted. I gagged. 

“Oh, John. I need a bit of Sherlock’s spunk too. Would you be so kind?” He handed me a second test tube. 

The door opened and in walked Trevor with Alfred in tow, his nose swollen. 

"Mind if I observe?" Trevor asked.

"Be my guest," Moriarty said.

"It seems I may have been mistaken about where the answer lies," Moriarty explained. "You see the answer was always right here, between his legs and in his brainstem. What I need now is a sample, and I see Sherlock has helped to provide one." 

He withdrew the gun from Sherlock’s lips and waved, motioning for me to step aside. A bitter metallic taste lingered in my mouth. 

"Of course I'll need more later, but this will do for now," he said. “Alfred? Your turn.” Alfred grabbed Sherlock by the hair, yanking him around, then leveled his gun to Sherlock’s head.

“Not going to happen,” Sherlock said.

I stood. "You got what you wanted."

"But I need  _ more _ ," Moriarty smiled.  “A bit of brainstem sometime too.”

"What?" I asked, heart pounding.

"And Sherlock."

"No,” I said. “You’re not getting anything else from us."

"Oh, but I am. You’re not in any position," Moriarty said. "Zip up your jeans. Don’t worry your pretty little head. I'll keep him safe.” He winked. “You'll get to see him whenever it's  _ necessary _ ."

As he stroked Sherlock's cheek with the gun, I clenched my jaw and shook with anger.

"This could prove to be very entertaining for me," Moriarty said, running the gun across Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then bit Moriarty's finger. 

"You fuck!" He screamed, then slammed the butt of the gun into Sherlock’s head. Victor stepped up between them, grabbing Sherlock's arm and twisting it. 

"I'll take care of him," Victor said, pulling Sherlock away.

"I don't want him damaged," Moriarty said, "Or touched,"  turning away as Trevor pushed Sherlock out the door.

Moriarty snapped the rubber stopper on the last test tube, handing them both to Alfred. Moriarty nodded to him. Alfred wiped his nose on his sleeve, then left. 

"It's just you and me," Moriarty said. "I know you're not the John who was here before, or the one before that. You know I'm not the same handsome guy you first met. Tell me, am I just as charming in other timelines?”

“You’re a spectacular dickhead, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told. Tell me what it's like when you jump from one world to the next, and I might be nice to that handsome boyfriend."

"It's nothing spectacular. I’m in one place and then another. But it's never exactly the same."

"When you became transparent, a shadow, could you see the yourself in the future?"

"No."

"Now now, John. Remember, I have your playmate. You wouldn't want anything to happen to him? Be cooperative. I might even treat him nice."

"If you touch him again, I will fucking kill you."

"No, no, no! Down boy!" he said waving his gun in my face. 

“I did it once. Killed you.” 

That shook him. Mouth snapped shut. What choice did I have but to give him a taste?

"I hit you with a shovel and buried you alive,” I lied. “You cried like a baby.”

He stared into my eyes. “No, you didn’t...” He twirled around, voice raising. “But someone else did! Was Sherlock a bad, bad, boy?”

This was going in the wrong direction. “When I jump, most of the time, I don't realize it's happening to me." That caught his attention.

"Most of the time? How many times has it been?"

"Three or four."

"Which is it, three or four?"

"I haven't been keeping track."

"You can't remember. Enlighten me how one forgets traveling from one time to another."

"It's easy if you don't recall who you are," I reached.

"You are suggesting you have no memory?"

"More like I have many memories, so many that I no longer trust them."

"You really shouldn't lie. You don't do it well. You know precisely where you've been, what you've seen. You've met me, Molly, that worm Victor Trevor. Those eyes of yours don't hide much. Then there's Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft Holmes’ younger brother. Ah, yes. I do know that. Everyone does. You and Sherlock are so close, so familiar. Both of you fit together in such awkward angles. So much practice in so many times."

He smiled and stepped closer. "No, you don't fool me. You remember everything. You jump through doors in time, planes of reality. What are the outcomes? Are they the same? How does it work?" He swung the gun around and pointed it at my head.

"How the fuck should I know? I’m studying medicine, not quantum theory."

" _ Uncle Gregory _ . He would know. Maybe I should get down on a personal level with him once again. No? Mycroft won’t like it, but that’s inconsequential. Please explain. Now,” he said, jerking the gun.

I hesitated. The room was still, but there was a distinct vibration. I couldn't tell if it was real or not. 

"People change. Some are the same, some aren’t. Some people I know are living in one universe, in another not. You have it wrong. It's not time travel," I said. "So forget trying to make yourself some all powerful being by going back and altering an event. You can't change history. You can't go back. Like you said, it’s planes of existence. Parallel universes. There's no controlling what will happen or how. I can't. It's random where I end up. If you think that you can bend it for your own purposes, think again. It bends you, and it’s not fun."

I felt the vibration in my legs. 

"Ah, but the experience. The wonder. The excitement. All the little unknowns make it all the more irresistible doesn't it, John? But most of all, the experience has altered you more and more each time."

"Of course it's  _ changed _ me. My life's been turned upside down."

"Still evading. You know exactly what I mean. You're not the same being physically. You're superior. Psychic."

We both looked at the chrome table next to me. The objects rattled on the metal table.

"If I'm so superior and psychic, why am I still here?"

"Look," he said, pointing to the table. "You don't understand. You don't comprehend the limitless possibilities."

"But  _ you  _ do?"

"Yes, you're hindered in other respects. Principles, morals, ideals. And you're distracted. You aren't alone."

"What?"

"I said, you aren't alone. You brought him with you. You're familiar. I've seen it before today. I've seen you both. You share some power. I know what you are, and you're going to take me this time. I will learn. I will become like you."

"No way," I stepped back. The lights began to flicker and pop in the room. Objects flew off the tray.

"I am superior in all respects to Sherlock.”

“No, you aren’t.” 

“Breaking lamps, moving objects? Nothing! You don't understand the possibilities! What I could do with your powers."

"There's no way I  _ can _ take you."

"Sex. Arousal. I didn't need your sperm. Mycroft is wasting his time! I just need to be alone with you, your sand," he pulled a syringe from his lab coat, "and this, then it will happen." He stepped toward me, crowding me into the wall. "First I'll make you beg, then I'll make you come. You will take me." I opened my mouth to speak when the door opened. I was never so relieved to see Moran.


	36. Endangered Species

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hold on for action packed ride. You also learn motives for Moran and Moriarty and see Molly in a new light! As I sift through these last chapters, I recall writing all this for the first time. The ups and downs. To breathe life into this through new eyes, is a wonder. 
> 
> Thank you to @mrbotanyb for not only beta’ing, but writing in a key passage in this to help make John and Sherlock more of each others touchstones. Splendid addition!

"There you are," Moriarty snapped, turning to Moran. "I expected you yesterday. Did you see Holmes?" 

"He's pretty, but soiled," Moran said as he stepped behind Moriarty. "I prefer my fucks fresh." 

"So particular!" Moriarty said, reaching out and brushing his fingertips against my cheek. I slapped his hand away. "This one looks delicious after a good fuck, all ruffled and flushed." 

The metal table vibrated in back of me. I closed my eyes. If only I had better control. If I had all this power, why did I feel so fucking helpless?

Moran stood beside Moriarty. He looked the same as the man I knew. His face gave nothing away. Moran's eyes rested on the syringe in Moriarty’s coat pocket. 

"He does look good," Moran answered, looking from me to Moriarty. "I'll have plenty of time with Holmes after he's cleaned up. Until then, Watson will do." 

"I don’t think so, Seb. He’s for me. You’ll have to wait before you can play. It’s not like you— you’re usually so patient,” Moriarty observed. 

“You know, I  _ could _ assist you with him," Moran said and slipped the syringe from Moriarty’s lab coat.

Moriarty smirked, "I do enjoy an audience. But for this special occasion, I think not. " 

"I promise to keep quiet,” Moran tapped the side of syringe, and Moriarty gave a feral smile. 

This wasn't going as I expected. Moran was supposed to rush in and rescue us like Bruce Willis. Instead Moran took a scalpel off the metal tray on the table and eyed Sherlock and me like he’s contemplating a vivisection.

"You're not going to make sarcastic remarks about my bedside manner, are you?" No, not like the Moran I knew. "I think you'll need to hold him, Jim."

"My pleasure, Seb."

Moriarty's cold hands snatched my forearm as I lunged away, sending the metal table crashing to the floor. Moriarty really wasn’t any match for me. But Moran? I started to swing at Moriarty and was greeted with the icy steel of Moran’s scalpel pressed against my throat. We stood face to face, Moriarty at my shoulder, eyes lit up with perverse glee. I could feel the blood trickle down my neck and wondered what would happen if I went for it. Moran dramatically held the syringe up in his other hand, inspecting it closely. I held my breath waiting for Moran to stick me with the serum. As he looked through the clear liquid into my eyes, he winked. I blinked. Then with one swift jab, Moran plunged the needle into Moriarty's arm. 

"You fuck!" Moriarty yelped in shock. "What did you do?!" Moriarty grabbed his arm, syringe still bobbing around in his shoulder. His dark eyes went wide, then he dropped heavily to his knees as he pulled the syringe out and flung it across the room.    


“You weren’t listening,” Moran said, leaning down into Moriarty’s face. “I said I only liked clean fucks. You’re as clean as they get, Jimmy boy.”

I stood stunned. Maybe this _was_ _Die Hard_. 

“You dick! I’ll kill you! You’re a dead man, Moran!” he clawed at his arm. “Pain! I feel pain!’

Moran shook his head at Moriarty. "That serum might be a bit too much for your majesty. It wasn’t meant for some ordinary immortal. I imagine it's fucking with you something awful.”

“But I’ve used this before!” Moriarty whined. “Something’s different! I never felt pain!”

Moran looked utterly bored. “Like it? Always thought when you finally felt it you’d enjoy it. While you’re down there, why don’t you blow me? It will save time. You’re about at the right level.”

“What do you want?  _ Watson _ ? Seb, your tiny brain has no comprehension of what you’re doing.”

“Jim, Jim, Jim. You really need to quit calling me names. Especially with you on the floor like that. I might haul off and kick you.” Then he did, right in the stomach.

Moriarty began sputtering, then shaking, staring at Moran like he could rip his eyes out.

“Want to insult me again, Jimmy?”

“Yes! You cunt! I do want to insult you again!” Moriarty’s jaw clenched. “You don’t understand. This is different! I feel pain. You infernal fool. We’ve done it somehow!”    


“Cunt? Infernal fool? Is that the best you can do? For a fucking genius you sure don’t learn very fast,” he said as he gave Jim another kick, this time in the side, sending Moriarty sprawling across the floor. 

"I had you going, didn't I?" he said to me, ignoring Moriarty’s whimpers and snivels and downright adulation at his own suffering. 

"Fooled me,” I said, still cautious and rubbing my throat. “I thought we were fucked."

"Now would I let that happen to you? Oh, wait! I did! What was that you were screaming? ‘Oh, fuck me harder Sherlock!’"

I blushed and cleared my throat. “I thought you were with them. Where’s Sherlock? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine and waiting for us,” Moran said, then looked down at Moriarty. “Sorry. I know I promised you a good time. You’ll have to take a rain check.” Moran waved. “Blow me later!” 

“Stop! Get back here! He’s the key! I feel pain.  _ He  _ caused this change! That’s the only difference, the only change in variable! Get back here. Seb!” Moriarty banged his head against the floor and howled at us again. He struggled to get to his knees. Instead he collapsed, shaking in a heap.

“Sorry Jim. It was fun, but you’re just not a good person,” Moran said as he kneeled down next to Jim’s head. "You never listened to me. You never cared. It was always about you. I see life differently than before. It took someone to make me see what I was doing here was wrong.”

“You won’t get far. The Community still wants him.”

“I think we will get far, far away. As for you, see what happens when you want 'privacy' and turn off the cameras? All sorts of things go wrong! Didn’t someone warn you about that once? Oh, yes! That was me!"

Moriarty shook and quivered, teeth chattering. 

“Poor Jimmy, just pull out that painfully hard dick of yours out and wack off. That's what you usually have to do anyway." Moran sighed and stood, taking a long look at his boss before he leading me out the door. Moriarty rolled over, still trying to get to his feet again. 

"Come back here," his groaned. "Moran, you...you can't have him— he's mine! You’re mine!"

"No, we’re not," Moran answered. "But you can have Alfred. He’s always wanted you. He might even bend you over if you ask nice."

We left Moriarty to scream into an empty room. I turned my head. At the end of the hall stood a familiar handsome silhouette in front of a large, white door. 

Sherlock bounced on his heels, smiling. I strode down the hall, beating Moran.

"There’s no handle," I observed.

"It's a biometric hand-reader,” Sherlock said. “I’m sure that the hand key is coded for only a few people here." 

Moran raised an eyebrow and placed his palm flat on the reader, and the door clicked open. We cautiously pushed the door open and checked the stairwell.

"We're heading to the roof." 

"Roof?" I wondered aloud.

"Chopper's up there," Moran said, taking the stairs two at a time. Damn, this really was a Bruce Willis movie. I had to laugh. Shit, I almost had myself believing I was the one vibrating the building. We were almost to the top when Sherlock pulled the back of my shirt. It’s not like him to be lagging behind. I turned to see his lips pressed tight, eyes wide. 

"I h-hate helicopters..." he stuttered. "They're so...unsafe." 

I stifled a laugh. Lowered voices and footfalls came from the stairs below. I grabbed Sherlock and urged him ahead of me. My legs burned as we reached the top step. Moran ran to the door, putting his left hand on the reader. It didn't open.

"It's locked. They must know," Sherlock said. “Mycroft said he could only stall them for so long.”

"Wait, Mycroft is helping us?” 

Moran tried his right hand. Nothing. Then the door swung open. Mycroft stood on the side. Guess that answered my question.

The wind from the chopper hit us. I swore under my breath. Why didn't I get a haircut? My forehead felt like bees were stinging me, my t-shirt slapped my body. We started for the chopper. With less than twelve feet to go, Sherlock froze, staring as he watched Moran and his brother run to the chopper. 

"Come on!" I yelled. He turned and looked right through me. I grabbed his arm and felt the fear shorting out the rest of his thoughts. "You've got this!" I shouted into his ear, both hands on his shoulders now. "After what we've done? What you've already faced? This is nothing!" I heard a pop, then three more. I hoped like hell it was covering fire.

Something shattered in Sherlock's mind, and I saw his thousand-yard stare refocus on my face like the twist of a telescope's eyepiece, breathtaking for the second before a shot cracked close to my ear. He nodded, turned, and sprinted towards the helicopter in a crouch. I stumbled after him, watching the skids start to lift off the pad. Damn it, how high did they think we could jump?

Mycroft sat halfway behind the edge of the chopper's open door.  I glanced back to see Donald and Alfred at the head of at least three other men coming after us.  Mycroft aimed and fired twice over our heads, forcing them back into cover.

The chopper hovered above our heads. It dipped lower, tipping back and forth like a duck in a pond. “Jump!” I shouted to Sherlock. He leaped and Moran grabbed his wrists and pulled. My side was on fire — I must have been hit. The chopper hovered, then lifted more. I jumped. My fingertips grazed the landing skid. Too high. I could hear the men behind me getting closer. Mycroft couldn't fire accurately with the helicopter dipping crazily like this. The skids tipped toward me, lower this time. I made another try and missed. I could see Moran motioning to the pilot to try again.

“John, jump higher!” Sherlock's baritone slapped through the rotor.

“I  _ am  _ jumping higher, you enormous ass!” I shouted although through the chopper’s roar, I doubted he heard. Damn his long legs! With adrenaline pumping, I surged up and out and this time, I caught the skid with my right hand. Sherlock grabbed my wrist, yanked, and I was inside. 

As I looked down at the skids, half expecting Donald to be hanging on in mid-air like Schwarzenegger. Sadly, he wasn’t there. I would have loved to crush his fingers and watch him tumble to the ground. 

“John!" He hugged me. Well, actually, he suffocated me, his long arms hauling me in like a lost child. "You jumped higher.” 

I rolled my eyes at him as he let go, then fell like a ragdoll to the floor of the chopper, arms splayed out and out of breath. Mycroft sat down and tucked his Glock away as we angled and lifted off while Moran knelt next to the pilot.

My wound had already healed. All those rounds and only one hole in my shirt. Not surprising that Alfred and Donald were fucking awful shots. "I thought for a second you weren't going to wait for me." The sun blinding me, it was too much to absorb. I had to close my eyes, slow my thoughts, calm myself. 

"I'd never let them leave you," Sherlock said. 

“Against my better judgement, he usually gets his own way,” Mycroft said. 

“Sherlock wouldn’t let Mycroft leave.” That voice! My eyes popped open and stared at the back of the pilot’s head. She turned and smiled. Molly! The sun's setting rays filtered around her head in a shimmering aura. 

“John thinks you’re an angel,” Sherlock said. How the fuck does he do that?

"No angel. But my lab coat is white," she said. "And I do have wings."

"What does that make me?" Moran asked her.

"You try to be good," she answered, "but you never quite live up to it. It's always been that way with you. I guess that's why I love you— good girls are always attracted to bad boys."

"What? I'm good," he said, kissing her cheek. “At least I’m doing my best to change my ways.”

"You enjoyed rubbing up against Sherlock far too much to be good, hon. Not that I don't see the appeal. But he only has eyes for John Watson.”

“You have to admit that I’m doing a lot better.”

“You are, but you’ve got a way to go. I can only imagine how you left Jim.” She turned to me and smiled. “You're Mr. Nice Guy— at least you were always kind to me." 

I sat stunned. Molly was speaking to me like she knew me, like we were friends. 

“Puzzled, John?” Sherlock asked. 

“Molly lied when she said she didn’t know us!”

“Not a lie. Misdirection. She doesn’t know  _ this  _ version of us,” Sherlock said.

Molly laughed and winked at us. “He’s right. But I know good guys when I see them.”

Sherlock’s back rested against the frame by the door, his legs hugging his chest. He seemed more relaxed despite the fact that he hated helicopters  _ and _ his brother, who sat across from us looking a bit more ruffled than I’d ever seen him. No longer preoccupied with being shot at, I ogled in surprise at this universe's Mycroft, who not only helped us, but apparently had no difficulty jumping into the action. 

A brotherly staring contest began. I held my breath waiting to see who would win until Mycroft gave in and spoke. “I knew immediately you weren’t my brother.”

“Simple to deduce,” Sherlock said, mouth quirking. “I said nothing to you. No insults. No acknowledgement. I almost played along and said something about the cake crumbs on your lapel and the extra five pounds you’re carrying in the middle.”

“That’s more like the little brother I know.”

Sherlock closed his eyes at that. I sat up, scooted over and leaned against Sherlock's leg. He rested his hand on my knee.

"What I do not understand until was why you kept on insisting that we take off,” Sherlock said bitterly. “The whole point was to rescue us. Why suggest leaving John behind— unless you never meant to leave him.

“Ahh. You do understand,” he said. “I was testing your loyalty to Mr. Watson. I’ve found no change from one version to another.”

“Loyalty. Hmm. What is yours?” Sherlock posed.

“Should we be concerned about where you’re taking us?" I asked.

“Nothing too nefarious,” Mycroft said. “Near Lestrade’s cottage on Lake Michigan. We’ll let you off on a strip of state-owned land.”

“With dunes and sand,” Sherlock said. “Maybe a bit nefarious.” I frowned at the implication.

"That way I can watch you two get it on,” Moran laughed. “Maybe catch a quickie with Molly. Nothing like love in the sand to spice it up. Then you two can go POOF into whatever dimension you belong, and we can get our Sherlock and John back." 

“That’s your plan?” Sherlock said, eyes on Mycroft.

“That’s  _ our _ plan,” he answered.

"Poof? You make it sound so easy," I said. Sherlock's thumb traced absently back and forth as he stared ahead.

"Listen, we need our Sherlock back," Molly explained, catching Sherlock's attention. "He knows the meaning of the message. Your Sherlock probably could decipher it too, but we haven't got enough time for him to have a eureka moment."

"You talk about him like he’s not here— your Sherlock, my Sherlock. This  _ is  _ Sherlock. He can decipher any message," I said. It felt good to have Sherlock puff up next to me as I complimented him. People didn’t do that enough. "Anway, what message?" 

" _ The Code _ . Your counterpart knows what  _ the code _ really meant. 'To see the universe in a grain of sand...' that binary code. There's clues to your power left in the poem. You can control it."

“This is crazy. William Blake left the message?” Sherlock looked off again, but this time he was thinking. 

"And Sherlock had the answer?" I asked. "All this time, I thought that poem was just some metaphoric mumbo-jumbo that Lestrade liked."

"Sherlock spent weeks locked up in that apartment,” Mycroft said, “shooting holes in Mrs. Hudson’s walls. Driving the poor woman to call me at all hours to bring him ‘supplies’ that I refused to furnish. Lestrade helped him, to a degree. Then when he had the key he refused to tell anyone." 

"Even me?" I asked.

"You?” huffed Molly. “You’re a different John. Definitely less uptight! Our version was not sure about his feelings. Don’t get me wrong—  you and Sherlock were both close. Sherlock loves John. But as for John, he hadn’t come to terms with how he felt— and just hasn't come to the same point you two have. Maybe they have by now, where ever they are."

"Something inside me tells me that they have," I said.

“John did confide in Sherlock about his immortality and the changes that had taken place,” Mycroft added. 

“It never was an issue until Moriarty showed up,” she said. “That's when Sherlock began to look for the answer for both of them. He still wanted John, and he believed in time John would see. Sherlock told me he found the answer before they left," Molly confided. "He spilled how he felt about John to me just before he left. Told me everything except the message."

"He  _ was _ going to tell me," Moran interrupted.

"No, he wasn’t. He didn't trust you," she said. “Sorry.”

"Well, this Sherlock is just as brilliant," I said, looking to Sherlock then to Moran. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"You could figure it out." I halted to watch the sun setting, the rich golds and violets mirror off Lake Michigan. "Why do I even want to go back? Why is it important?" 

"To stop him, to stop them," she answered.

"Is that possible?" I asked.

“It’s enough to try,” she said.

“I know given time you would unravel the riddle. We simply do not have the time. It took my brother months to finally solve it. In that time, who knows what havoc Moriarty would bring. It is not just our puny lives. All lives.”

"Nothing like laying on the guilt,” Sherlock said. 

“I want to go home, but it’s not what’s most important to me.” I reached over and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. His slow smile made my stomach knot. God, I loved him.

"I'm about to land," Molly said. “We’ll let you off and say our goodbyes.”

"What? We're not going to watch the show?" Moran complained. “At least we could have a little fun.”

Molly stuck her tongue out at Moran. "You wish."

"I always wish." 

We hovered above the top of a dune. Sand whipped around below. Sherlock dangled his legs over the side.

"No offense, but I hope we never see the two of you again," she said.

Sherlock jumped.

"Thank you for helping us. And I hope we never meet again too," I replied, then followed.

The sandstorm that surrounded us burned every inch of my skin. It swept through my t-shirt, down my jeans, clung between my fingers, dug into my scalp. It was like being buried alive again. I reached for Sherlock to feel something real. As the chopper rose and flew over the lake, the sand settled. We could see lights twinkle from houses down the shoreline and Sherlock and I walked down the silent beach. We sat in the wet sand and slipped off our shoes, then ran like kids, racing in and out at the icy cold edge of the water, splashing each other. We spied a secluded spot between dunes and investigated the possibility, avoiding a thistle. Sherlock decided it was the perfect moment to give me an ecology lesson.

"Most unusual. It's called the Pitcher's thistle. An endangered species. Hard to believe a thistle so menacing could be on the endangered species list? Yet this isn't like thistles you see in lawns. It's not a weed. It has an importance to the dune cycle. It takes the thistle five to eight years to flower. Its roots go over six feet deep. Bees love it. The stalk on the flower shoots over three feet high— judging from the size of this, it might flower. Bees love it. Did I say that? But after it flowers, its seeds dry up and ripen, and fly away. And that's the plant's mission in life. It dies."

"Looks like a good place," I interrupted. Sherlock nodded and smiled. An inlet. Quiet, serene. I remembered this place. It was not far from the cottage, near where we first jumped. We sat between clumps of marram grass while the silvery leaves of poplars spun in the breeze off the lake. I thought about the thistle’s seeds floating away and starting a new life, and how sad it was that the mother plant would pass on. Life. There and gone. Was it fair to be immortal? The sun was gone, just the ripe-plum horizon reflected in his blue-green eyes. I sighed and leaned into his kiss, lips so promising and sweet. His hand tucked me safely into the crook of his neck. 

"Think this'll work?" I murmured into his chest. I wondered how we'd ever know if it had.

"Think it's worth trying?" he answered.

I looked up at him.

"I'll follow," he whispered. 

"No, we go together."    


We fell back in the sand. It was already cooled. He melted on top of me like water seeps down into the sand on the shore. His tongue swept my mouth and traced the edges like he’s mapping it out in his head. I decide he probably is. Our clothes washed away by lapping hands. T-shirt, jeans, discarded one by one. 

I kiss him with a conviction I hadn’t realized until this moment. We were doing this. Going. Leaving this place in hope that we would bring back the ones who belonged here. My purpose was clear. Our purpose was clear. No serum needed for this. All we needed was each other and the sand. His lips are flushed red and parted. His knees fall apart. He’s so fucking beautiful against the white dune. Swirling softness and wetness over the taut flesh, Sherlock is shaking, I feel it in my hands and in my soul. With spit and lake water, I pushed inside the man I love.

With the pitch of his body against mine, I plunged my hands into the sand on either side of him. 

Sherlock's breath drags out into a long sigh. He’s surrendered. I’ve surrendered. We are with Mica. 

He called my name like a promise and my breath sobbed inside my throat, closing our eyes to images of home. Semen spills. That was the last I remembered until I opened my eyes to mist on the boundless lake in early morning.


	37. End of Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always to MrBotanyB for her amazing beta work!

We found ourselves in the same place. I was naked and my backside was cold. The only warmth came from Sherlock cuddled around me like a mother cat. His eyelids danced open. 

"It's still you," he mumbled, flashing me those sparkling eyes framed with those familiar smile lines. I hadn't seen nearly enough of that recently. 

"Yeah, it's me. But it looks like nothing's changed."

He buried his head into the back of my neck, then stretched. I felt the rush of his spine popping. He lolled on his back like the feline he was, letting the morning sun warm his stomach. He closed his eyes and yawned, then reached his hand into mine and gave it a protective squeeze.

"Um, John," he said with a lazy grin, "where are our clothes?"

I sat up, looking around. I didn't see them. Fuck. This wasn't good.

My skin prickled from the cold wind coming off Lake Michigan, and I chaffed my arms to get them warm.

"Tossing them off like that probably wasn't a good idea," he recollected.

"At the time, it was musical." I started to stand. "Although, you know technically they weren't our clothes. Who knows what our other halves did with them, maybe shrugged them off into the lake running down the beach. They could be halfway to Wisconsin by now." 

Sherlock head turned to the large clump of blueberry bushes. I looked too. A slight willow tree up on the dune moved.

"Did you see that?" he whispered.

I nodded.

"I hear something too." He stepped forward, and I grabbed his arm.

The wind whistling across the sand was all I heard. 

"What?" I asked. 

"Giggling. I heard giggling."

I turned my head up the dune again.

"I hear it too... it sounds like..." I straightened up. "It does sound like someone laughing." I saw my ratty t-shirt waving from behind the willow tree like some rescue flag. 

Giggles. More giggles.

I smiled.

"Give us back our clothes right now, Mary!" I hollered. "It's not funny!"

"Come and get them!" She jumped out, dancing in her green and white polka dot bikini top and frayed cut-offs, and waved our clothes above her head. With a wicked look, she hitched them between her legs and ground into them like an exotic dancer.

"Hey, those are ours!" I squeaked.

My scrawny self started up the dune. Sherlock laughed as I darted my lily-white ass after her, cussing her out under my breath. Man, the dune was steep. She pranced along the crest, molesting our clothes while sand flew behind her. Now Sherlock's shirt was getting attention:  she made a production as she rubbed his shirt on her breasts and moaned, "Give it to me, stud."

I heard hysterics from the other side of the dune. Fuck. Anderson and Sean were watching  _ Mary Live _ .

I was at the top of the dune, and sure as shit Sean and Anderson were rolling with laughter on the other side.

"Look at that manly boy belly with peach fuzz," Anderson shrieked. 

"What are you laughing about,  _ peasants _ ?!" I spread my arms wide. "Gaze on my Adonis-like beauty." I turned to Mary, who was now within an arm's length of me. "Listen," I said to her under my breath, "you're making me look bad in front of my boyfriend."

"Good!" She chirped, scattering our clothes and laughing at me as she ducked over the dune to the guys on the other side.

The laughter faded on as they ran off.

"Better get back to the cabin, you two!" Sean hollered over his shoulder.

I picked up our clothes, bare ass sticking out in the breeze, then I tried my best to run back down the dune after Sherlock and look self-important. Well, as self-important as a skinny white guy can look running naked down a dune, not an easy feat to achieve when you trip simultaneously on your dangling belt and a large chunk of driftwood. I landed face first with my mouth open.

Maybe if I just laid there Sherlock wouldn't notice the love of his life was a klutz.  _ Sure,  _ I thought,  _ he won't, and my mouth's not full of sand either _ . The sand squeaked near my head, and I saw Sherlock's toes peeking near. The cool cast of his shadow fell on my back while I weakly tried to think of something profound to say to him. I turned my head and opened my mouth, but wet sand plopped out. "Gawd," I mumbled pressing my head into my forearm,  _ now that's sophistication _ . He took his belt from my hand and slapped me a good one on my ass. I yelped.

"Sorry," he laughed, "I guess seeing those nice round globes wagging in the air like that was just too hard to resist. Must be men with Adonis-esque physique have that effect on me."

I laughed at myself as he helped me up. We pulled on our clothes, then followed our friends' footprints in the sand to the cottage. 

“You know, we can never have sex in the sand again,” he said.

“That’s okay,” I said. “There’s so many other places we haven’t had sex yet.”

“And I’m not touching you until you shower.”

I didn't need to hear or see any more. Anderson's chuckles. Mary's antics. We were home. A mixture of fear and relief trickled through me. With sadness, I looked over to where the Pitcher's thistle was last night, and it was no longer there. Neither was my sister. We walked the line of dunes back. I saw the cottage. As we neared the back door, Anderson came out on the breezeway. 

"I was amazed at how fast you could sprint," Anderson laughed at me. "But don't blame Mary too much. We told her to go out there and get your attention. Figured you had enough alone time."

He leaned against the doorframe. "You remember we're heading home this morning, right?"

"Yeah, sure..." I said.

Anderson shook his head and pulled at a thread at the bottom of his washed-out orange tank top. 

"You two have been stranger than usual lately. Hope you're over it."

"Yeah, we're over it," Sherlock said, kicking sand at me.

I blushed and began perving over how good that belt might feel on my bare ass. 

"We were just so glad you both made up last night; we didn't want to disturb you," Anderson smirked.

I caught Sherlock winking at Anderson over my shoulder. 

"We thought you'd be safe since Moriarty is still missing. But still, we were getting worried. You never know. I think Sean went out to check more than a few times last night."

What is it with the winking? I was beginning to think everyone has a tic.

"We gotta get going," Anderson said, opening the screen door. "Everyone else has packed."

Mary greeted me by throwing one of my crusty old shirts in my face. 

"Hurry up," she said. "I'd like to stop at Cherry Point before we go." 

“I need a quick shower first.” After, Sherlock and I climbed into the loft and dug through the dresser, scrounging the drawers and packing. 

I stopped, looking at Sherlock all hunched over trying to get another pair of jeans into his suitcase.

"I was thinking about what Anderson said earlier," I said, "about our counterparts making up last night. We consummated our relationship in another dimension again? That's cool."

"John, you're so daft sometimes. They already had. How do you think they switched with us to begin with?"

Sherlock lifted up the mattress and pointed. I guess they came prepared. I wasn't sure whose lube was under the the mattress, but I put it in my bag since I had room.

I tucked a dirty pair of boxers inside the front pocket of my backpack. Sherlock's suitcase was brimming with clothes. I never have that problem. I pack light. A few t-shirts, holey jeans, cut-offs, swim trunks and that pair of boxers. I stared inside it like something was missing.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked. Then he realized. " _ Your sister _ ." 

"It's like losing her all over again. I don't want to lose us too."

"John, you don't have to worry about that. I'm in this forever. I mean  _ forever _ ." I could hear the wheels turning in Sherlock's head the rest of the time we packed. Thinking about mortality, immortality and Blake's poem. I was too. He’d figure out the riddle in this time as well.

I was also thinking about the lube. Most of all, I just needed him to comfort me. 

"Sherlock?"

"Yeah?"

"Think we'd have time, to you know, mess around?"

He searched the floor, scanning under the bed for anything we might have missed. 

"No John, I don't think we have time to 'mess around.’ I think they're waiting for us to get downstairs." Sherlock sat on top his suitcase to get it latched.

"Okay, just asking." 

"Let's go. We need to get home. I've got a mystery to solve. Research to do."

“A mystery. That’s new.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder. Sherlock grabbed his suitcase and pulled the trapdoor open. I looked back at the bed.

"Where is home,  _ exactly _ ?" I asked.

\--------------------------------------

Most of the ride back was wholly uneventful. Even the stop at Cherry Point was flat. I spent most of my time running through my brain what Moran and Molly had told us while shoving my face with sticky cherry strudel. And what was the answer to the Blake's poem? 

I knew we had big problems. I felt like an ant stuck to the bottom of a shoe, helpless and hopeless. Not even strudel mania worked. 

Mostly I thought about Harry. I scratched my chest where my heart should be, but I didn't feel happy. We were back. I should feel something more than this. Harry wasn't here. No sister. My chest heavy, like it was being pressed with granite.

I sniffed and wiped my nose with the back of my hand. 

When it all became too much, I mindlessly watched cars whiz by while listening to oldies on the radio and licking my fingers clean. 

The whole while Sherlock sat next to me, deep in his mind palace. I rolled the window down a crack as we came into town, and I missed the lake air. 

"Anderson?" Sherlock said leaning forward  "I need to stop at the university library before we head back home.” Home. There was that word again. Felt nice. “Mary, hand me your phone."

"No, way, Sherlock!" she said. “Last time you took it without asking and used it to look up gay porn!”

“I’m sure it was for research purposes, and I will just take it again if you don’t hand it to me.”

“Give it up,” I said. “Please. He won’t look at porn. I’ll make sure.” She rolled her eyes and gave it to him.

Sherlock slid down the seat, fingers zooming.

“Don’t you need my password?” she asked.

“No.” 

I rested my head on his shoulder. He rested his hand on my knee and gave it a squeeze then continued his manic texting and surfing. I closed my eyes. I felt that old tug on my heart. I wasn't a tin man after all. My mother always told me that home is where you make it. 

"Mind if I ask what you’re after?” I asked.

“A copy of Blake's complete works with his illustrations. I need to find out how earlier editions differ; therefore, I need access to academic papers along with biographical information," he said. 

Afterward, we must have dozed because I woke to sound of gravel from the back library driveway crunching under the tires. I blew on Sherlock's cheek and the corner of his mouth curled up as his eyes fluttered open. I pushed my back into the seat. 

"Wait here," Sherlock yawned as he opened the door. "I won't be long."

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Mary said.

Sherlock frowned as he handed her the phone over the seat. She took it, then mumbled to Anderson next to her, "work, work, work."

"What did you say?" I asked.

"That's all Sherlock has been doing lately," Mary complained. "Work, work, work."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

Mary turned around in her seat. "You know," she looked at me flustered. "We thought taking you both to the cottage would get his mind off this obsession, but I see we just postponed it."    


"Well, at least they got that lovin' feeling back," Anderson cracked.

"Shut up," Mary said, slapping Anderson's arm.

"Why do you call it an obsession?" I asked.

"Well, that's what  _ you _ called it! What the hell, John?!"

She looked at me like I was an alien. I didn’t understand. If this other version of Sherlock knew the key, why was he still researching? Because he wasn’t the Sherlock who had the key! We were back. This universe felt right. I felt right. But maybe it wasn’t the case of our previous version or the Molly we just left behind.

"Must be falling asleep on the beach did it to me," I said. Well, it  _ was _ the truth. Partly. My eye began to twitch. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

"What happened last night anyway?” Mary asked. “I mean, you are acting more like yourself today. I was seriously beginning to wonder about you with all the apocalyptic references and crazy talk. What was it you called it? 'The end of forever' or some horse shit like that. Please don’t start up again."

"I’ll try not to."

What was happening? I needed to talk to Sherlock. Now. Something was terribly wrong. Sherlock. In the library. I looked out up into the third floor library windows. 

“I’ll be right back.”

“John, no. Get back here! Not again! We’re not waiting around in the car for hours on end this time!” Anderson called after me.

He was at the circulation desk, and my eye was still twitching. He looked as if his should be too. 

“What’s up?” I asked.

“It’s all checked out. In my name.” 

“Well, that saves time,” I said. “I have something to tell you.”

—————————-  
The familiar washboard driveway jostled us around. Tires spun from the sloppy ruts where the spring thaw and showers had deepened them. Anderson fish-tailed the car once or twice again for fun down Lestrade’s driveway.   
  
The sugar maples had budded and the edge of the pond had begun to wake, green life poking through the brown leaves.   
  
Anderson honked the horn as we pulled up to the Lestrade’s house. He threw the car in park and sputtered off. He jumped out and went around to open the trunk as Uncle Greg came out the door. His gait was stilted, head down watching his feet and stepping over puddles in the drive. Halfway to the car, he lifted his head. I could literally see a charged aura around him.    
  
We got out. I'd muddied my hand as I slammed the car the door. Looked like a demo derby special all caked in globs of mud, dried grass, weeds punctuated with bird droppings. I gazed over the top of the car and laughed; it was the only place that was clean. I met Sherlock's eyes as I wiped the grime off my hand on the side of my jeans.  
I chewed my lip, nervous habit. I stepped next to Sherlock, grabbing my backpack, anxious to talk to him alone, tell him what I'd learned. Didn't look like that was going to happen any time soon since Uncle Greg stopped in front of me and put his arm around my shoulder squeezing me in an over exaggerated death-hug.   
  
Glenda stood in her usual place on the porch, waiting.   
  
"I'll call you," Mary said. I'd known her long enough to see she was more than uncomfortable under my uncle's sharp eyes. Uncle Greg did look kind of frightening, his brow creased and mouth set like a criminal court judge about to pass hard sentence.   
  
Anderson and Mary got back in the car and took off, leaving the rest of our things at our feet. I was hoping we were going to 221b.   
  
"Come in," said Uncle Greg, giving my shoulder a tight squeeze, then letting go. "We need to talk to both of you."   
  
Sherlock flashed me a concerned scowl. We followed him two steps behind into the house. I knew. Sherlock knew. The screen door scraped open under my uncle's leathered hand. Glenda held the door and came behind. It’s why we’re here and not at Sherlock’s.   
  
"Moriarty?" Sherlock asked as the door banged shut.    
  
The first step inside they house it hit me like some airborne narcotic. Roses everywhere. Hothouse roses, fresh cut. My chest tightened. Glenda walked up to the vase on top of the piano, fiddling. The florist in me wanted to slap her hands and show her how to properly arrange them and how to handle cut roses, but I reined the floral designer in.   
  
That wasn't all that needed reining in. Sherlock hands twitched and clenched. I hungered and itched. As we walked by the looking glass over the mantel, my face looked back, cheeks spotted red, and Sherlock's face flushed as he picked a book up off the coffee table. Glenda pretended the roses needed water and Uncle Gregory stared at my back while Sean bit his lip.    
  
"I'll never understand why you dug him back up," Sean said, thrusting his hands in his pockets.    
  
I gasped at his words, the meaning clear as I turned and faced him. His pupils dilated, lips moved again as he repeated the words.    
  
I dug Moriarty back up? Why'd I do that? I recalled begging for mercy on his behalf— how I felt as if it was me being buried alive. And then it became real. I could feel sand, suffocating. My stubby nails dug into my arm, scratching.   
  
"You should have left him there," he spat at me. "None of this would be happening. I don't understand." Sean stepped into my space, nose touching mine.   


Fuck. I was sweating, itching, heart pounding.    
  
"I'd like to talk to Sherlock and John. Alone," Uncle Greg said. Sean stepped back.

"It's always this way,” Sean said. “You dismiss me. I want to help." 

“Getting in John’s face and yelling at what we can’t change isn’t helping,” Uncle Greg said.   
  
"If only you’d explain to me, John, why this need for self-destruction? It’s more than some moral high road. What is it?”

I stood dumb. What the hell could I say to him? I didn’t know why.

“Don't tell your own brother then," Sean spat out. He began to leave the room, stopping at the old grand piano and picked up the vase, turning to Glenda. "And what is this?! The house reeks of roses! Are you trying to ward something out or keep someone in?"   
  
Sean set the down the vase with a clunk, turned his back to us and began to walk out of the room.   
  
"Why must you always be impossible?" Glenda asked.   
  
"You know, I give up," he said, waving his hands over his head. "I'll be upstairs if you decide to let me know what's going on."    
  
"Go upstairs," Uncle Greg said.   
  
"This is such a fucking dysfunctional family," Sean called over his shoulder.    
  
My uncle's eyes rested on the book Sherlock clutched tightly in his hands. His eyes were unfocused. I heard a bang upstairs, Sean slamming his door.   
  
"You're not the same," my uncle said, eyes level with mine.


	38. Where Have all the Flowers Gone?

I hesitated, finding my voice. At last I said, "No, I’m the same John who left you, but I’ve changed." My uncle continued to stare into my eyes like he could see my soul, a mist swirling beneath.    
  
He felt the pull of the roses. The old grandfather clock struck the half hour. "Are you displaced?" he asked.   
  
"This is where I began, if that’s what you mean. You could say we were displaced until now." I didn't know how much to say. What to say.   
  
"Are you sure this is where you belong?" he asked.   
  
Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded. "Yes," I said. “We’re sure.”   
  
"It worked then," Glenda sat down on the couch, clenching her hands in her lap. "Sherlock was right."   
  
"I was?! Brilliant! About what?" Sherlock asked. He seemed to snap out of a dream, or possibly his mind palace.   
  
"That you could return to where you began," she said.   
  
My legs shook as we stepped up to the old piano. Sherlock pulled out the bench, and it groaned as we sat down. I rested my back against the keys, comforting for us both to be close, thighs touching.   
  
"I’d like to know a bit about how it was different," my uncle asked, sitting on the arm of the couch.

There was so much to tell, but so much I didn’t want to tell. Sherlock sensed my hesitation.   
"It will take days to relate to you all we have experienced," Sherlock said slowly. “It’s far more important that we know the danger Moriarty and the Community pose. There had to be an explanation as to why John dug up Moriarty. Our counterparts had a plan. I would assume it involved the Community.”   
  
I was getting woozier with Mica's effect and let my body rest against Sherlock’s.   
  
"We don't want to upset either of you. We know you've been through so much. I can hardly imagine, but you must know that in your absence much has happened to us, all of us," Glenda said, then told us the story: My angst-driven behavior at the lake after we’d buried Moriarty, the family's confusion at my behavior, and how I'd rejected Sherlock. The annoyed voice, and the way she stared at my hand on Sherlock's knee, I realized she wished I rejected him still.    
  
She stopped as the clock struck six times. We waited for her to begin again and take up the story. It was a riddle to her, she told us, why we had acted oddly. Yet our uncle accepted it all. Finally he shared what he knew. She said she wasn't surprised I was not the same and Sherlock wasn't either, after all, she knew it had to be something like that. Normally she didn't bother herself with concepts like these. Time travel, parallel universes were my uncle's and my parents' preoccupation. Her preoccupation was the garden, this house, keeping the family together, but I knew better. She had as much a hand in it all as anyone else in this room. Maybe more so. At last she spoke of her confusion over how I'd gone back to Lake Michigan, dug up Moriarty, leaving "that man" free on the beach. Why had I done such a thing? I had said we had a good reason. The solution to it all.   
  
"You told us that it was the only way to finish this," she said at last. "We thought it was finished when we dumped the last shovelful on top of him." She blinked. “It’s hard for me to distinguish that you’re different.” 

I admit that the scent of roses made my mind muddled too. Having Sherlock so near made me want him. I had to fight to ignore the heat of his leg against mine and how warm his knee was beneath my hand.   
  
No one spoke and the old grandfather clock ticked seconds, then minutes. I cleared my throat, then I told them the condensed version of our story. With my mind muddled by Mica, my tongue was loosened although I felt like I left pieces of myself behind as I'd told the story. I spoke of how I was buried. How lost I was— the longing I felt. It seemed the air in the room made the longing all the stronger. I told them how Sherlock came to be immortal. How I felt remorse and delight in this. How I'd lost Sherlock for a time, and how losing Sherlock was like losing a piece of myself. I hoped as I told this, Glenda would come to understand how much Sherlock was a part of my soul.   
  
At last I told them how this was not finished— that we intended to finish it. But I did not tell them how I intended to do that because it was still a mystery to me. It seemed our counterparts may have had a clue.    
  
I stopped. Took a breath. Waited. Then said that the other John might have done the right thing digging up Moriarty. Uncle Greg stood up.    
  
"I’m beginning to think Sean is right. You are bent on self-destruction," Glenda said.   
  
"No," I said. "If we were, we wouldn't be here now."   
  
"We don’t have answers.  _ Yet _ . But we will. Your help would be appreciated," Sherlock said.    
  
"Part of me thinks I shouldn’t interfere," my uncle answered.   
  
"We don’t understand your purpose. If we did, then we would help," Glenda said.

“That’s pretty clear,” I said. “To stop Moriarty and the Community for good.”

“Stopping the Community is like stopping time itself. You can’t do that,” she said, grabbing my uncle's arm.   
  
“If you’d slipped through universes, it wouldn’t seem so impossible,” I said.

  
"There’s more...something they’re keeping from us," Sherlock said.    
  
"I will, but first tell me, Sherlock, why are you holding that book?" he asked.   
  
Sherlock turned the thick, worn book over in his shaky hands. Blake’s Complete Works. "His poetry. But you already know the connection. Why did you send that coded message to John if you didn’t want us to unravel this mystery?! We want to know how to stop Moriarty  _ and  _ the Community. Isn't that something we all should want?"    
  
"Moriarty, yes, but it's not that simple when it comes to the Community," Glenda said.    
  
My uncle sat stone still. “Interfering with the Community could put your brother at great risk,” he said. Glenda immediately came to full attention. 

“Mycroft can take care of himself. He always has,” she said. 

“Mycroft?” His eyes were unfocused, brows furrowed. He struggled to keep himself in control, but felt him trembling. “Why the concern for my brother?”   
  
“He’s helped us, kept us informed on the organization’s machinations,” Glenda said, staring at Sherlock’s shaking hands clutching the book. I put mine over his. “But he’s come to mean too much to Gregory.”

  
"What?” Sherlock choked out. “You are interested in my brother?" he asked, as I helped Sherlock to his feet.    
  
"He is mortal. It doesn’t matter how I feel. It can never be. With that, I’ll say goodnight," Uncle Greg said.

“Wait, Uncle Greg. Look at us,” I said, motioning between Sherlock and myself. “We’re finding a way, and so should you.”

“Goodnight,” my uncle said. As we walked out of the living room, he turned to Glenda. "I don’t want to hear another word from you about Mycroft.”    
  
I helped Sherlock up the old, winding stairs to my room. Closing the great door with my foot, I sat him down into the overstuffed chair by the old victrola. Sherlock surveyed the room. The desk held his laptop and folders and notebooks. Papers tacked to the wall next to the dresser. He opened the book and took a shaky breath.    
  
And there were roses in our room. My own hands trembled as I touched the vase on the old maple dresser next to where Sherlock sat. I strode across the room, and knelt on the old cushions in the bow window, pulling back the yellow lace, then the faded teal drapes. Opening the window, I grabbed the vase and dumped the roses out the window.    
  
"This is some kind of distraction on Glenda's part," I said, breathing the fresh air from the window. "Trying to get our minds off of who knows what." I left it open. With one long, deep inhale, I stood and walked back toward Sherlock. "You’d think she’d want us apart. It’s what she always wants. So what’s her deal with the roses?”

“You are right. It is a distraction. She’s afraid of our solution. She’s afraid of change.”

“God, I want you," I said under my breath.    
  
"Ignore it."   
  
"I’m trying."   
  
"Try harder. I must read. I need to know the answer! Find out that he knew! Look, John!” he said, pointing to his laptop. “He left me a journal in a cloud. Hid it where only I would find it. So much to go through in this room. Poems and art work and documents. The poem. He marked the lines."   
  
I heard the soft knock on our door. Sean. I opened the door, and he sheepishly stepped inside.

  
"Wanted to see if you were both okay,” he said. “I’m sorry about earlier. That was not a good way to welcome you home. I know how Glenda can be. And also, I wanted you to know it doesn't matter if you can't tell me what's wrong. Just talk to each other. If you need to, you can go down to the garden. I know not much thinking goes on there, but sometimes it's better to feel than think."   
  
"I don't think this is one of those times," Sherlock said.   
  
Sean smiled. "You know where I am if you need an ear... g'd night."   
  
He stepped out, closing the door behind. Sherlock saw the look in my eye and squirmed in his chair.   
  
"Ignore it," Sherlock said. “I am.” 

  
"Yeah, ignore it," I repeated. I stared at the ceiling. Stucco. Off white. Some cobwebs. " [ _ Where have all the flowers gone _ ](http://www.lyricsfreak.com/p/peter+paul+mary/where+have+all+the+flowers+gone_20107752.html) _? Long time passing _ ," I sang. " _ Where have all the flowers gone? Long time ago _ ."    
  
"What is that?" Sherlock asked, licking his finger as he turned a page.   
  
"My own form of distraction," I moaned. "An old folk song. And will you stop doing that?"   
  
"What?"   
  
"Licking your finger!" I blushed hot, thinking of the things his tongue and those long, tapered fingers had done to me in the past. I sat purposely on other side of the room in a rickety cane chair next to the maple vanity and pulled out my acoustic Gibson guitar. I tuned it up and continued singing the old song. It seemed to embody part of the essence of Blake’s poem to me. When done, I put my guitar down and haltingly told Sherlock about what Anderson had said about the "end of forever" and wondered aloud what it might mean. 

  
After, we sat silent. Shadows grew long. Sherlock read. And read. The sun bled red in through the bow windows. Sherlock read more. I thought.   
  
My arm itched horribly. I dug at it while I felt the world close in. "It comes down to a message my parents wanted me to find," I said, breaking the white-hot silence. "Yet, it sounds like you were closer to understanding it than I was. Why?"   
  
"I wonder too. What if you already know? What if you don’t want to know? It’s almost as if you subconsciously don’t want me to find out."   
  
"What? What makes you thinks that?"   
  
"If I understand, it may change us, and we can never turn back," Sherlock said.   
  
"Subconscious or not, I'd only keep it from you if I thought knowing it would hurt you and even then, I’d think about it hard and probably tell you," I thought aloud. "There are a lot of references in the poem to pain and suffering as necessary to the human experience. Pain, suffering, what only I experience and other immortals don't."   
  
"Like me."   
  
"And in giving to those less fortunate, maybe the message is giving the ability to everyone."   
  
"I thought of that also, in fact, we both believed it once according to his journal. That doesn't jive with the end of forever, and it sure won't get rid of Moriarty."   
  
"Maybe make him less of a nuisance. It's just when I think of the poem, and us,” I said. "The end of forever could mean the end of immortality. We would all become mortal again. To see a world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower."   
  
"Yes, yes, but it’s unlikely the solution is that simple.”

  
“How to do it isn’t that simple,” I said, “but as far the a the heaven in a wild flower, I've experienced it often enough with you."   
  
"Ignore it."   
  
I watched his lips. "Yeah. Okay, what about this: Mica is now cultivated, no longer a wild flower, but once upon a time it was wild."    
  
"You don't seem to be treading any new ground here. Try some inspiration," and he got up and handed me the book and I read aloud “The Auguries of Innocence” again. We paced around the room. Sherlock began following me in my convoluted circles, trying to read over my shoulder.   
  
"It talks about power corrupted," Sherlock said, pointing to two verses in particular. "I think your parents chose this because it represents what's gone wrong with the immortals. Look at the Community. 'The strongest poison ever known/Came from Caesar's laurel crown.' But where's the key on how to bring it down?"   
  
"Listen to this, will you?" I said, stopping next to the bed. I plopped down, leaning my back against the poster at the head of the bed. Sherlock sat next to me as I read aloud again:   
  
   If the sun and moon should doubt,   
   They'd immediately go out.   
   To be in a passion good you may do,   
   But no good if a passion is in you.   
  
"It's telling us not to let passion rule us. Damn if that's not what I'm trying my best not to do now!" I said.   
  
"Quit scratching your arm," he said. He reached over and turned my wrist. "Look at your arm."  His finger brushed over a blister that had formed where the thorn was buried under my skin. A red line ran up my arm. "What is that, John?"   
  
"You mean the thorn? Forget my arm." What was he going on about? I almost had it. End of forever? Doubt? Hell!   
  
"John! You’re brilliant! What if it isn't just a line from the poem?" he said rapidly, taking the book from my hands. "What if it's the message, too? The title. 'Auguries of Innocence.' This poem is an omen, a portent. I was too quick to shrug off your idea and call it simple! You may be correct! The end of forever for immortals  _ would _ be to be no longer be immortal! It’s only through acceptance and belief that human suffering and joy can be realized. You’ve said this yourself since the very beginning. Our reality—a grain of sand or a wildflower—reveals profound truths about the entire cosmos. The thistles on the beach. The rose thorns. We must suffer. We must die. Without those there is no joy. Your song, John. You sang it. It’s about war and men dying and the never ending cycle. That’s what this is, a never ending cycle." He set down the book. "Why is your arm doing this? It looks like blood poisoning."   
  
"A cycle that must be stopped! I can stop Moriarty. I can make him mortal. I made him feel more than once. I can do it again. I did it through my own will, my own belief. I can do this. I know it."   
  
"Your arm. John," he repeated. "The roses in the house, the room, the garden. This is a reaction."   
  
"Didn't you hear what I just said? What this means? We can be normal again. Everyone can."   
  
"John, not everyone wants to be normal."   
  
"Don't you?"   
  
"Yes..."   
  
"You don't sound so sure."   
  
"It's not that. We know what it's like to be this way, going back might not be that easy. We’ve only been this way a short time. Think what it will be like for those who have lived for hundreds of years? Then there are those who want what you have. I don't like the trade off of not feeling pain, however…some people will do  _ anything _ to live forever.”   
  
"I see how you look at me— especially when you think I'm not looking. You can't hide it. Victor told me it eats away until you feel numb. I don't want that to happen to you, to us."   
  
"What I want is for us to be together. What I feel for you won't change. But the rest? There will always be people who want more. To be the few who have power, and it will always be that way. They'll want it back. Moriarty. There will be no end unless he's dead and gone. With the Community, there will never be a place far enough for you to hide. They’ll remember. They’ll want it back. It won’t change the threat they pose. What would it be like with them all wanting what they no longer have anymore and knowing you're the one responsible? Are you saying you'll change everything? You can’t just change everything! You'd have to make them forget, too!"   
  
"God, Sherlock. I'll love you no matter what. No matter where. You know that? You have to believe too. That's what the poem's about, as long as we believe, we'll find each other."   
  
"You're scaring me, John."   
  
Our silhouette on the wall was long with the last gasp of the sun through the bow window. I'd first seen this bed in a dream. I recalled how I'd made that dream come true. I'd used sex then to avoid what was to come. I felt the same swoon mixed with fear now.    
  
"I'm scared too," I whispered. "I can feel him. He's near."   
  
"John. What if—"


	39. Songs of Innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter remaining! Thank you MrBotanyB for your continued help and advise. You make my words sing. Love ya! Also thank you for everyone's support through the chapters and John and Sherlock's journey through universes. They're reaching their conclusion to face Moriarty in the garden.

I was shivering when I woke up. Cold, damp air. I rolled over— all I found was wadded sheets and quilts crumpled from our love making. Sherlock was gone. I sat up, opened my eyes. The window was still wide open. 

My heart raced. My lungs ached. I scrambled for my jeans as I ran to the window. I climbed on the cushions, opened the screens, then leaned out the window into the night air. Too dark to see much. I scrambled back down to the floor and tripped, pulling on my jeans and shoving my feet in my shoes as I ran for the bedroom door.

Why the hell didn't he wake me? Where was he? What the hell did he think he was doing? For all I knew, Sherlock was in the bathroom taking a piss, but I had a bad feeling. As stood looking down at the top of the stairs, fear crept into my throat. The large doors facing the garden stood open. 

I clutched the curved railing for support, then let it lead me like a friend as I ran down the winding stairs and out the back door into the night. The chime of the old grandfather clock echoed behind me.

My eyes quickly adjusted, but I was already walking forward as if it was daylight.  The thrum of the garden and the brighter pull of Sherlock guided me without need for sight or sound. I startled at the gate in a panicked murmur that came from all directions. Just birds, I realized, house sparrows in the dogwood, chirping at the disturbance. A few moments later they settled and reclaimed their branches, shadows in the dark. 

Moriarty had to know I was here. While every fiber inside me wanted to shout Sherlock's name, I didn't want to give Moriarty any more advantage than he already had. I dug at the blister where the thorn throbbed beneath and crept forward.

Why Sherlock felt the need to go to the garden alone, I didn't understand, I only knew Moriarty was somehow responsible. I stepped as silently as possible through the garden. My sneakers squeaked on slippery dark green patches of grass that sprouted through last fall's covering. The garden was coming to life. New shoots budding on the dogwood. Branches on the old maple and oak trees, still naked, moaned as the night wind pushed them. Then there were the roses.

The barren woody vines wound their way through the trellises swaying in the night air, catching at my clothes and skin. I thought of the poem and my purpose. I needed to concentrate. It was near impossible to do in this place with Sherlock so near. 

And Sherlock was close. Every atom of my body yearned for him. His heat. My heart pounded and my cheeks burned.

"John, over here." I could just make out his face to the right of me. He grabbed my arm and tugged me over. He wore just an old white t-shirt and frayed and faded blue pj bottoms. His feet were bare. My arm tingled where his fingers touched. I wanted him so much I hurt.

"What the hell are you doing?" I whispered. His breath warmed my face. This place always made him so fucking irresistible. Without any warning, I took his mouth hard, my teeth scraping his lips. In a rush he became as intoxicated as me. I crushed my mouth into his, and he answered by crushing mine, then he blinked and came to his senses.

"What the fuck are _ you  _ doing?" he panted, lips parted against mine.

"Shh! Looking for you, dumbass," I mumbled into his mouth, trying urgently to get his interest back. I nudged his nose to get an advantage and chewed on his bottom lip. That usually worked.

He looked into my eyes as I went in for a better taste. 

"Wait," he gasped, his fingers pulling at my hair. "What the hell are you talking about? Why did you come down to the garden?"

" _ Me _ ? Why did _ I  _ come down to the garden?!” I whispered hoarsely. “To find you! Why did you?" 

I vaguely remembered Moriarty, and that I should be concerned as I rubbed my wrist raw against the fly of my jeans. I was hard, and as I reached between his legs, Sherlock was harder.

"Following your sorry ass," he gulped, pressing his forehead into mine.

My mind slipped over what he was saying while my body leaned on him for support. I was drunk with him. I reached under his robe and pulled the elastic at his waist. Those flannel bottoms needed off. All I wanted was to slam inside him and make him scream. He had sense enough to pull us behind a trellis and out of the open as I slid my hand into his blue pjs and stroked his length. My wrist rubbed against the seam. My fingers stretched down and I groped him. He gripped me around the waist and pulled me to him— all musty and warm.

"What are you talking about?" My voice tight and level as I found him as hard as I was. His nostrils flared as my fingers spread around his girth. He gasped and bucked in my hand. "You left me asleep in bed. I woke up, and you were gone. You left the window open."

The he moaned and grabbed my wrist; his eyes warned me to stop, but the way he licked his lips told me far different story.

"I opened the window because you were in the garden.  _ I saw you _ ." His voice shook as he spoke. My teeth nipped at his neck. God, I was dizzy-drunk from the scent of him. He tried hard to resist, but his cock jerked in my hand. I could literally feel the molecules spinning with the heat against his neck in each of my shaky breaths. 

Then what he'd been saying, it registered.  _ He saw me in the garden. Me.  _ I let go. 

"What are you talking about?" I whispered. "I was in bed. I got up and looked out the window, and I couldn't see anything, it was too dark." Reflex or want, I wasn't sure which, but his arms clamped around me, and he backed me into an old maple tree, knocking the wind out of me.  Two-handed, he tugged and pressed his fingers hard into my hips. On any other man they’d leave bruises, on me an echo. 

"You were there.  _ I saw you _ ," he repeated with such ferocity I flinched. 

"Then why didn't you wake me up?" I said, rocking my hips into his. He pulled me down to him, bringing my hip bones forward until the ridge of his cock pushed and slotted next to mine. 

His face was flushed. He frowned, searching for words. "How could I, if you were down in the garden?"

This wasn't getting us anywhere. His teeth clanked into mine. Yikes, was that his tongue? I was confused. He saw me, I didn't see him, he followed me, I wasn't there, like an existentialist's anxiety dream, too confusing for my senses at this juncture. God, he was flicking his tongue against the roof of my mouth, his incredible cock rubbing mine. Nothing mattered.

"Not here. Inside," he whispered, reading my mind... _ yeah, inside _ .  “No, inside the house. Come to bed. Our bed. Together.”  _ Mmmm. A nice soft mattress on the second floor...  _ our cocks bumped together. My shivers followed Sherlock's.

"We better get back before Moriarty shows up," I agreed. 

We pulled each other along the path, mashing mouths, twisting clothes, tugging hair. Thorns tore and scratched, trying to hold us back as we made our way. We were at the entrance of the garden when Sherlock pushed me into the stone wall, struggling to work open the front of my jeans. Sherlock pressed the heel of his hand and rubbed it up and down against the ridge of my cock, flexing and grasping and kneading. 

I was torn. I wanted him now. All of him. I was greedy to feel him, but I was afraid. Moriarty was near. We needed to get inside the house. I wasn't ready to let the garden win. I fought against its call, grabbing Sherlock's ass, then pushing him back, biting his neck, then thrusting him past the gate's threshold. We were out. I took his hand and squeezed, pulling him toward the house. Distress grew in his eyes, pupils large, making his light eyes dark with want and fear and the excitement he lives for.

The back door beckoned. We stumbled toward the light. I grabbed my stomach and pitched forward— my body cramped in betrayal, every muscle knotted. I collapsed to my knees and twigs snapped like brittle bird bones. My chest was tight, and I gasped and heaved, my forehead pressing the ground. So cool, musty, welcome. I pushed my cheeks against the moist rotting leaves, healing, blessing me, and masking Mica's insistent beat for a few feeble moments. I felt Sherlock's body smooth beside me, then every muscle starting from my toes began to burn like a hot iron, and I curled into a ball seeking whatever relief the clammy ground could offer. Sherlock spoke, but I didn't understand. I tried to focus on his face. Sweat burned my eyes. "Withdrawal," I finally understood. Sherlock wiped my face. God, his fingers were a wisp of relief. 

"Get me away from here," I choked. My muscles clenched again. Skin like ice. I shook with cold. The core of me frozen solid. I thought, this must be what it's like to turn to stone. Then I couldn't breathe. 

Sherlock reached under my arms and lifted my dead weight. Sliding against the warm smoothness of his shoulder, I felt the tidal pull of the garden and at the same time felt him sway toward that same pull. Mica, in dizzying stereo. He turned around; we were going back. His final resolve — and mine, now, I realized, clinging to consciousness: no more staying only one step ahead. No hiding from the only thing that could help us. 

No way out but through. The garden beckoned like a jealous lover.

"Come inside." 

They were both waiting at the gate. The garden, and Moriarty with his gun. Sherlock carried me like a bride over the threshold. 

Moriarty's voice was just as bitter as the taste in the back of my mouth, dissonant against the sound filling my head. Sherlock helped me limply stand. My body quit. I staggered like a town drunk. Both our footsteps fell hollow as we took the last few feet from the gate, swinging behind us, gun shining in Moriarty's hand. O.K. Corral in a woody rose garden: instead of high noon, it was midnight. The night sounds of crickets and tree frogs like a dirge.

"Nice to see you both," he said. "I've been expecting you."

"Expecting or watching," Sherlock said, more comment than question.

He laughed low and quiet. "I got the impression you wanted an audience."

I shifted uneasily next to Sherlock. My head was still cloudy, my legs still wobbly, but I had Sherlock to anchor me.

"You've helped me so much," he said. "Made me more powerful. I brought you both down here." 

"Whatever for," the voice was mine from another time— the 10-year-old me confronting a playground bully after I'd been pushed in the mud. 

"You didn't bring us here,” Sherlock spat. “The garden brought us here."

"I made you see John," he said. " _ I _ brought you into the garden with  _ my _ new powers.  _ I _ made you believe.  _ I _ put thoughts in your heads—  _ I  _ made you see what's not there."

" _ Your mistake  _ if it’s true, but it’s not. I know Mica’s call," Sherlock said. 

"Smirk if you want, but you know that I brought you here." 

"You’ve made too many mistakes," Sherlock hissed. "Underestimating John was one. The other was to not leave us in peace. We're giving you a choice right now, leave us alone or else whatever happens in this garden, you own."

Moriarty laughed, gun held loosely at this side. His suit was dark, fitted, like some bad guy. All he was missing was the black hat. "Threats? Sherlock, how you  _ have  _ changed! I hadn't expected this from you."

"I...we've been through much."

"As have I."

"Nothing you didn't deserve," Sherlock said, lunging toward him, but I pulled him back by the arm as Moriarty laughed harder. 

"Ah, Karma. I forgot, you seemed to believe in that nonsense," Moriarty grinned. "Your mother and father were flower children, weren't they? Your lack of sense must come from them smoking far too many of those funny cigarettes before you were born. You were raised in a commune. Most likely you don't even know who your real father was."

I grabbed Sherlock around the waist and pulled him back. Even in the dark, I could see his face filled with anger. 

"Sherlock, he's baiting you. Stop. It's what he wants you to do; it's not what the garden wants you to do."

“I’m sorry,” Moriarty laughed. “It’s so hard to take Sherlock seriously when he’s in that dressing gown.”

Sherlock’s shoulder muscles loosened, and he sucked it a deep lungful of midnight air. I could hear his brain take back control, feel the him slide into a safe room in his mind palace. I let my arms go slack around him.

"You misunderstand," Moriarty said. " _ I'm _ here to help  _ you _ ." He leveled the gun at Sherlock's head as he looked at me. "We could do this together. All share in this power. I like Sherlock; a bit of fire in his belly is something I can work with. Admire his mind. He does usually have better fashion sense. I wouldn't mind sharing a part of forever with him too. It would be a shame to have to wipe such a brilliant mind out of existence."

"You won't take anything from us," he told him. "Nothing."

"This doesn't have to be the end of you." The finality in Moriarty's voice made me flinch.

"You aren't going to get anywhere pointing that Glock at Sherlock. Put down the gun, and we'll talk."

I stepped toward Moriarty, and put myself between Sherlock and his sights. Sherlock went to pull me back, his fingernails scratching the back of my arm. One look in my eyes and he stopped. 

"The way I see it, you don't have much power," Sherlock said. "Your abilities are pathetic next to John’s."

He read me. I concentrated. I tried mentally forcing the gun from Moriarty's hand, but he had a tight grasp. It was a war, one that surprised Moriarty. His eyes sparked and turned like a pinwheel, rolling and lolling back in his head, I didn't like the direction this was going. The garden seemed to be working against me, a current tugging at my feet. I run full throttle down the dune.

Sherlock’s running out of the water, his teeth chattering with cold as he throws his arms around me. "Damn, I missed you." He steps back. "Ah, I'm getting you all wet."

I wrap myself around him, pressing him through me. He isn't the one who was with me there, just then, in the garden, in the dark. I'm not in the garden, I realize. I love the way my nerve endings tingle and spark wherever he touches me _.  _ But it’s not him. 

"Like I care about a little water," I say, noticing his shiver. Then I start to panic. 

"It's that icy water. Not so bad when you're in it, but when you get out..."

"Yeah, I know," I say, "part of that Great Lakes' experience. Wanna go in and put something dry on?" I pull him toward the house. This must all be Mica. Trying to teach me something. Show me something here that I was missing. I have to know. I have to beat Moriarty. 

Sherlock flashes me his lopsided boyish grin. I really  _ was  _ only suggesting he put something dry on, but—

"Sure. I'll have to change if we go into that air-conditioned house. I'll freeze to death in there."

He grabs my hand and squeezes it, pulling me inside.

I long to touch the water beaded on his chest and trace my fingers across his back, connecting the dots where the sun forced the freckles across his shoulders to stand out. I wonder if this is the riddle.    
  
I blink and look at Sherlock. He’s confused. It’s dark. We’re back in the garden. Moriarty’s mouth is open. “John, you _ did  _ that.” He saw that? He saw where I went! My eyes flashed to Moriarty. He did too.

"I can move objects with my mind," Moriarty said in a pathetic grasp to hold onto what he still thought was the upper hand. 

"Telekinesis? TK? Big deal," Sherlock laughed. 

"I've been able to do that since I was a kid," I said. "You're not impressing me at all.”

"I can kill mortals with a thought. Can you?" 

We both said nothing, then Sherlock spoke up. "John would never use his powers to destroy." 

"I didn't say I did, I only said I can,” Moriarty sneered. “There is a difference. So join me. Join me, and Sherlock will stay safe. If you don’t join me, so long to his pretty head."

"Moriarty, stop. You're not getting anything, not Sherlock, not me, not my family, and I'm not going to let you hurt innocent people."

"Don't make it come to this," he said, pointing the gun again at Sherlock again. "I do think your lover has value. I'd hate to destroy something with so much potential."

"I won't let you shoot him.”

“Someone as powerful as you shouldn’t need a gun," Sherlock said, sarcastically.

A thorn caught on the leg of my jeans as I stepped forward. This time Sherlock grabbed me. We stood side by side. Together. 

"Yes. People as powerful as we are know that guns don't matter," Moriarty answered. "Or harm puny people. That is the shame of this. I could show how to use your powers, John. Think of what you could do with them. Cure disease. Stop pain. End crime. The possibilities are limitless."

Sherlock laughed. "You’re not benevolent. You don't want to make the world a better place. You never would," he said. "Seems to me you have all the power you need now. Anyone who conjures up thoughts in others' minds doesn't need more power." Sherlock put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. I straightened my back. I had to do this. He gave my shoulder two more squeezes, then let his hand drop. 

"You of all people should know it's never enough," Moriarty said to Sherlock. "I want what I always wanted, to have John’s powers, all his powers. I want to move through other universes. Alter perception on a grand scale. I'm close, so close to my goal. I need him to get there. You are standing in my way. You can either move or die."

"You'd like that," Sherlock said, trying to pull my leg free from the thorny vines. The tendrils squeezed tighter.

"Put the gun down," I warned. "Leave. You don't know what I'm capable of if you push me."

"There is much you could do with your power. You are superior. Our power would be limitless. We'd care for all mortals as our own children."

"You're talking like we're on Mount Olympus,” I said. “We're not gods."

"Ha. Not yet. But I will be. You will make me that way. You've always known you weren't like everyone else. The rest of the immortals left walking the earth are only half-breeds. You are a throwback. You are like the first who came to our world, before they evolved."

"Into what?" I asked.

I tugged at the woody vine that had attached itself so mightily. I felt it wind around and tighten, its barbs burying into my thighs. I no longer tried to pull away. I understood. 

"The roses," Sherlock whispered next me. “Let go, John. Let go.”


	40. Songs of Experience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After over 200K and 40 chapters, Failing Upward ends. I’m a bit sad and a bit overwhelmed posting this final chapter. Thank you to those who’ve read and commented and supported the story. Special thanks to #1 fan Jillian and to @ghislainem70, who was my very first follower on Tumblr and continued friend. Thank you to those who will read it now that it’s complete.
> 
> And very special thank you to @mrbotanyb who has beta’d and suggested and mentored. She’s talented and oh, so good at shifting my ideas into something brighter and more brilliant and more powerful. 
> 
> My wish is for people to fall in love with the story as much as I have as I’ve written the story. I love the romantic period and intertwined in this story. I’ve used William Blake’s “Auguries of Innocence” as the basis for my quasi-science. I admit I’ve been fast and loose with quantum theory. Yes, magical realism mixed with physics is a scary thing. With the prick of an alien rose in a magical garden, John’s life changes. Love and loss and the pain of John’s immortality come together in the worlds he and Sherlock travel. All to find a way to be happy and make a safe universe.

I smiled. Moriarty thought he understood. He had no clue. As the rose's tendrils crawled and crept across the ground, he stared at me in horror and stepped back.

Thorns dug into my legs and tendrils wrapped around my fingers, but I trusted what Sherlock told me. I had tried to find a way to control my abilities so I could stop Moriarty, so I could win, so I could change the nature of the universe. That was just thinking like Moriarty. As if I was somehow separate from the universe. As if any of us could do anything else besides let life be to live itself. As if the garden was against me. I let go of all control. 

I heard far off voices. There were vines around my wrists. I was tangled around hands that strained against me and then stilled. I could feel my roots curled tight in the sand, far down in the dark earth. Even though I had been in the garden all my life, I felt like I could remember everything John had experienced. I could feel all the possibilities of all universes start to unfurl and spread, soft and silent, a rose in my hand. I looked into the center.

—————————-

"Wake up Mr. Watson, your boyfriend is here."

Bernice the big night nurse sure had a lot of nerve.  _ My _ boyfriend. My wannabe boyfriend maybe. Sherlock walked in the door looking at me with those eyes. Yeah.  _ Those eyes _ . The eyes that made me want to crawl under the bed just to get away. They were so beautiful and ethereal— for a guy. Not that I would notice something like that. Or the cute way his nose was twitching right now. 

"I hate the hospital," I groaned.

"Brought you these," he said. Don't know how I could have missed Sherlock holding a dozen red roses in a vase. Must have been distracted somehow. 

"I'll leave you two alone," Beatrice said, winking at me at she closed the door behind her.

My cheeks were burning. What the hell did she know anyway?

"Sorry about your car," Sherlock said. "Guess that llama did it in. Anyway, you'll be okay, that's what's important."

I nodded. Sherlock turned and set the roses on the table next to the window. As he bent over to straighten them, I rolled over so I could see him— I mean them— better.

"What about the card?" I asked. He took it off the flowers and brought it over. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and handed it to me. 

"I've thought about this for a while," he said. "I've got something to tell you, but I want you to read the card first."

I knew what was coming. Shit. He was going to finally tell me. My heart started pounding. My face hot. Why did this matter so much to me? I opened the card. It read: 

_ I have a story to tell— it will sound insane, but I can prove that it's true. When I'm done, if you want me to leave I will, but please consider what I’ve said. I say it for us. _

I looked up and nodded. Then he told me the story of Mica and Blake's poem. About Moriarty. About parallel universes and painful nights apart. Through the painkiller and sips of ice water, I listened without interruption. Just nodded and frowned and bit my lip. It was all too fantastic to believe, but I did. Every word. I knew it was all true because I felt it in my heart.

At last he finished and I lay there quiet, staring at my feet. Sherlock reached out and squeezed my hand. 

Next to my bed was the note left in my car from the three yellow roses I delivered at the Lestrade house— all written in ones and zeros. I'd tried reading it before hitting that llama. I didn't need to decode the binary. I knew what it said: "To see the world in a grain of sand..."

It's funny how sometimes you don't know what's in your own heart until someone shows you the way. I guess I was like a needle skipping on an old vinyl record, I needed a nudge. 

I squeezed his hand and looked into those eyes I'd been afraid to stare into for all these years. 

How could I keep from loving them.

"Want me to go?" he asked.

"No. I have something to tell you too." 

Like that I knew. I knew it all. Where I was, where I came from. Sherlock. I knew I had to go back. I heard it. The song.

————————--

Mica’s song. Like a siren, she pulled me back into the dark garden, into my universe. The tendrils had wound around my legs to my wrists, to Moriarty's wrists. We were a part of Her. I felt Moriarty through Her. The empty space he held for a soul. He wasn’t going to good places, making my disgust for him turn to pity. He looked at me with hatred, such hatred, because I pitied him. Because he knew where I journeyed people care. 

“Step away,” Moriarty cried, twisting against the vines. 

He fired the gun at me, at Sherlock. The shots deafening. My shoulder burned. Sherlock was on the ground at my feet.  _ Oh, God, can he survive a shot that close? He should. He doesn't look OK. Please let him be OK. _ I swallowed the terror back and let Her guide me.

—————————-

I heard the sparrows flapping and chirping. I must be near the gate. I was tired, so tired from finding my way on the path. My shoulder burned. "You are walking through a garden, a beautiful garden... one... two... three... steps you take.." 

I walked toward Sherlock's voice. "John? John?" I heard through a fog. "Come back to me, John."

My eyes slowly opened. Sherlock frowned, touching my brow. 

He was alive. No gun wound. He was fine sitting before me. I was flat on my back. I had on my red Converses, ripped, worn jeans and my orange Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt.

"What did the card say again?" Sherlock asked. 

I stared up, then over. There was Peter Deal. Or Victor.  _ Our _ Peter. Dockers, lab coat, red tie. The robin's egg blue walls, print of Dali's  _ The Great Masturbator _ on the wall parallel to the bay windows. Sun was too fucking bright.

I pushed up with my elbows and managed to sit up. 

"Welcome back," Deal said. "You were under for hours."

I rubbed my temples. Then it all came to me. Again. I’m tumbling across universes. I was still on a lesson. Sherlock on the ground. Moriarty. The garden. But I wasn't there anymore. She was still there. She was  _ here _ . I felt her. Mica's call. I was in here, in Deal's office at Hidden Hills— home of 100+ SPF sunscreen, polarized sunglasses and loads of naked white people. I wasn’t where I belonged yet. I hadn’t  _ changed _ . I needed to change.

I smiled up at Sherlock, expecting a look of relief. Instead I saw confusion. 

"That was an interesting story," Sherlock said, bashful. His eyes avoided mine. "Sure you don't believe in past life experiences?" 

"Nah, but this guy has a vivid imagination— kinky too." Deal winked at Sherlock. "I think you might want to test the waters further with this one, and I don't think you'll come out dry, if you get my meaning..."

I watched Sherlock blush. I closed my eyes. Nope, definitely not my Sherlock. I was sure, but what did I need to take from this? My wish was true except not as I'd expected. He was not the Sherlock who went through all that I did. Not the Sherlock who suffered, not the Sherlock who gave up his soul to be with me forever. We hadn't wished together. 

I went to stand, and my legs were Jello. I melted into Sherlock's solid, comforting arms. He tried to hold me up. I fell against him, my chest turning into his. A dopey smile plastered across my face as my own arm slipped around his waist.

"Ah-h, John," Sherlock stuttered, more confused than before. "You're out of it. Better take you home."

"Home," I said. "Now that's a good idea." But this wasn’t  _ home _ . Sherlock blushed darker as I leaned into him and realized just how happy certain parts of me were.

As he helped me out to his car, he kept stealing bashful glimpses at my face while I just stared lustfully at him from Mica still coursing through my veins. His confusion became a kind of aphrodisiac. I was waiting for the change. To return. Nothing.

Sherlock turned on the radio.

I was thinking on what had happened, where I was now and how. What I still must do. I'm sure Sherlock was thinking hypnosis had addled my brain. I had to get back.

I closed my eyes and reflected. How many people would trade eternal life for true love? I sighed. My fingers brushed my wrist where the thorn had once been. Smooth. I opened my eyes. No scar or thorn. Nothing. I wanted  _ my _ Sherlock.

"That was some story you told," Sherlock finally said. "Alternate universes and roses—  even had a proper villain."

"What?"

"Don't you remember? You told Peter too. That's strange."

"I remember, just..."

"Just what?"

"Just...it’s real." Fuck! Why'd I go and tell him that? Now he'd definitely think my brain was addled.

Frowning, Sherlock hit the button to silence the radio. "Real? No, Peter told you to believe it was real. I was pissed at him for that. He told you later it wasn't. I told him not to fuck with you under hypnosis! Damn, I hope he didn't fuck up your head."

"Fuck me up?" I said. "Nah, he didn't. Besides, I thought you said it was harmless?"

"Yeah, well maybe not, considering you just told me you think it all happened."

I looked at him. "No," I lied. "Actually, I don't recall much of anything. Why don't you tell me?"

"I guess it wouldn't hurt." He told me what I'd said when I was under. I noticed he'd blush every once in a while and skip ahead. When he got to Lake Michigan’s beach, he stopped, searching for words.

Finally, I said it for him.

"We made love in the sand," I said. "You think it was just white noise from my subconscious, or wishful thinking on my part?"

"You tell me."

"Wishful thinking." I hoped when I left this universe, I’d leave the this version of ourselves better off. In love. Together. The way we’re meant to be.

He smiled and nodded, then turned the radio back on.

We listened and sang the rest of the way home. Well, if you want to call what he does  _ singing _ . Then he pulled up in his driveway. 

Even though it felt real, this wasn’t right. I had to go back. It was that quick. In a blink. 

—————————-

Easier each time. My shoulder still burned. I dug hard into my wrist, over the old scar. My nail caught on the barb of the thorn beneath. A pointed spark of pain shot up my arm. It was stubborn. I bit into my arm. On the second try, I caught the thorn between my teeth. I closed my eyes. We could see again where we came from. She was showing me. Violet and pink skies and vast plains. We were one of the first. I— she remembered what John was, what was in his heart. All possibilities of John.

We wished, the garden and I, for all this to end. We wished for Moriarty to be mortal. For all to have a beginning and end. I didn't doubt Her. She was tired. She was trying to help me. Sending me to places to enlighten me. To know that we were meant to be. She wanted a place beyond these old stone fences; she wanted to go home too. 

 

—————————————-

It was a nightmare. Green, red, blue and yellow twinkled behind my eyes. As a kid, I never would have believed I'd be so sick of Christmas, but putting up thousands of strands of lights and hundreds of yards of pine roping downtown had me ready to throw glass Christmas ornaments at Jolly Ol' Saint Nick.  My hands ached from twisting in those tiny blinking lights so throwing bulbs was out of the question— that, and there was no way to have that great release needed, you know the ultimate windup pitch where the bulb explodes. You see, there was the matter of the ornaments sticking to my fingers. Damn pine tar from the roping was like Superglue to everything I touched. Like a particularly useless and sticky King Midas. Finally there was Mrs. Hudson, who I could never in my deepest pit of my heart disappoint. If I threw ornaments at the Santa on Main Street, she'd shake her head and I'd get a terminal case of the guilts.

So I was stuck. With pine sap. Fingers a gummed up mess. Sap doesn't come off properly without turpentine, but it burned like a bitch to pour it over my hands. Ever had one-on-one contact with blue spruce and white pine? They don't call them pine "needles" for nothing. My hands were human pin cushions. Try pouring turpentine over hundreds on puncture wounds and you will know the meaning of agony. 

I grabbed a Cheeto out of the bag I was holding and popped it into my mouth. Or I tried, and it stuck to my palm, mocking me. I nibbled it off and set the bag aside. Even Frito-Lay had holiday packaging— stupid holly. That had evil pin-points too. I couldn't even enjoy junk food without Christmas horning in.

I figured I'd just have to live with mitten hands with mini-holes until the stuff wore off, and I healed.

Then it hit me. Where I was. 

I crossed my legs at the knees. I was flung out all over the couch. I tried to relax, really I did, but I still heard the muzak downtown buzz in my brain. Ok, I have to say that "Deck the Halls" and "Jingle Bell Rock" sucks.

Closing my eyes, it struck me—  _ I'd turned into Scrooge. _

I jumped up. This can't happen! I had to get out of this funk before I tried to staple tiny antlers on the heads of mice. If only Sherlock wasn't working late at the library tonight— I needed a serious diversion. Must have Christmas spirit. I pulled out all the desk drawers rummaging around. _Now where did Sherlock hide those spare keys— Ah ha!_

I ran around the house collecting what I needed. After all, I might be back in the garden any minute to face Moriarty. What was more horrifying? 

I headed out the door for the library with a sprig of mistletoe, a Christmas stocking full of surprises, and the keys to the university library.

He was in the basement, referred to as "the dungeon" by those less fortunate who worked down there. I went down the twenty steps into the inferno. In this place at Albright College Library all associate professors earned tenure.

"Hey, Sherlock? You there?" 

"In the back."

I headed through the stacks of old periodicals with my stocking full of goodies. I wondered who this Sherlock would be. We were already in a relationship in this universe. Settled in. Happy. I stopped. There Sherlock was, sitting behind a desk, laptop glowing on, lips full. I stepped out, hiding the stocking with Christmas goodies behind my back. One look and I knew— of immortality and roses—

"What brings you here into the bowels of hell?" Sherlock asked, reading glasses inching down his nose.

"I bring gifts."

"Is that so?" He said. "Hope it's coffee."

"Sorry." I stepped around to other side of the table. "No caffeine. How much longer will you be?"

Sherlock sighed and looked up. "Hours." I don’t have hours with him. I may only have minutes.

"You know, if you don't get out of here, you're going to become as musty and dog-eared as some of these old books," I said, sliding the laptop over with my arm. I parked my ass smack-dab on the table in front of him. "Now that I have your attention."

"Yes?"

"I'd like to make a brief announcement."

"I'd like to listen, but I have to get this finished..." he reached around me to get his laptop, but I snatched his hand.

"No, no, no!" I said, getting in his face. "Look into my eyes..." but it was too late.

 ________________________

My parents had left me a riddle about eternity.

Our last wish was the most difficult— for everything to be as if no immortals walked in any universe. We wanted to rest. Now I understood; it's how we love that's important. 

Moriarty learned all this together with us. The pain of the empty space grew inside him; a poor soul dwelling in the realms of night. To not know love, only hate. He despised us both for having a home. Mica pitied him more than I for this. She pulled Moriarty to the ground, tearing his flesh from his bones with brutal love. I could feel her twisting him apart. The look on his face was somewhere between rapture and acceptance, for he could finally feel. He was human. For the space of a breath, I felt his grief as life left him, blood vessels exploding. He understood that "which was born in a night to perish in a night." His blood clotted and was welcomed by the ground beneath my feet. He became food for new life. His muscles liquefied until they could not longer bear the weight of his bones, and he collapsed in a heap. Then I spat the thorn out on to the mound that was him. The garden wept for all her years lost yearning. Wept in happiness to go home. 

I stepped over Moriarty's remains and out of the circle where Her brittle vines had dropped. Her last song lingered, more beautiful than any false melody I might ever wish to create. I sobbed for her—  someone I now knew more intimately than I knew myself. My chest ached for Her loss, yet I let go to see She would finally have peace. She wept in return for me.

As I turned I saw Sherlock's body, face pale upon the ground, the last flecks of life from Her fine vines kissing his cold lips. Blood, a large blossom on his chest, where Moriarty shot him dead.

  
I clutched him to me, cold against his cold, afraid I'd wished us both mortal too soon. I put one hand over his mouth and the other over his heart. He gasped, his hand grasped my wrist on his chest.

The kiss on my forehead let me know.   
  
"I want to feel you close, so close we shut out the world," he murmured.   
  
I tucked my head into that rough spot under his chin I loved. We explored each other slowly, losing ourselves along with our clothes. Heat, sweat. The sparks. Seeing inside the other's hearts and listening to the rhythm. Doing what Sherlock loved best, friction slick with spit and sweat. Slow and easy. Sliding and building the heat between us. Him on top riding me, setting a steady beat. No need to break our mouths away, kissing and capturing each other's tongues and moans. Cocks slick with each other's musk and sweat mingled. Hands caressing faces, pulling hair, raking backs. Taking our time as all our life's blood swelled into one place. Holding, holding on. We forgot the world.   
  
Sweat, spit, semen. I made my wish. And Mica made Hers. And then we slept.

We woke to Sean and Uncle Greg standing above us. I cradled Sherlock's head in my arms. My tears wet his face and mine. I should have known he wouldn't leave me. He wasn't like Moriarty. Sherlock was all light. My touchstone. 

I buried my face his neck and sobbed with joy. 

His wet lashes fluttered open.

"Is it over?" he asked.

I nodded and kissed his forehead, then hugged the stuffing out of him. We were home. 

\--------------------------------------

"Is this another wrinkle?" Glenda said, digging through her vanity. "God, where did I put the Oil of Olay? Could you be a dear, John, and help me find it?"

It  was difficult at first. Seeing Glenda worrying about laugh lines and crow’s feet, and Uncle Greg complaining about arthritis in his joints and the crick in his back. I blamed myself, considering that the passing of Old Father Time was my fault. Sometimes I thought maybe they did know that I was the cause of their suffering, that's why they complained so much around me. As I helped Glenda look for her personal fountain of youth, I remembered what Sherlock said to me just last night: "Stop beating yourself up for that. They'd never experienced it up to now, so of course they were going to bitch more. It's part of life. It's going to happen to us someday."

He was right about Mica in the end. Forgetting was the key. No one to come find you if no one knows. He was afraid to forget. Sometimes I wished he remembered what we went through. It was the trade-off. A normal life together with no memory of the time when the universes collided. Not really a choice. And I could still tell the story to Sherlock. And he believed me when I did.. 

Glenda had invited us to dinner tonight. I'd noticed a sharp decline in her culinary abilities since "the incident in the garden" (the term Sherlock and I now used for that day when she suddenly accepted Sherlock as part of the family. I remembered that day much differently. Sherlock had to trust in my memory.) It took her much longer to prepare with a poorer result. Still, she cooked a heck of a lot better than me. Sherlock still had her beat. 

I followed Glenda to the dining room, then to the kitchen, helping her by carrying the chicken to the table. She called, "Dinner's on."

As we sat around the table, I had to laugh. Sean looked so happy in love. Glenda smiled at him, knowing the reason for the light in his eyes. She didn't care. She liked Smith. 

Uncle Greg reached for the mash potatoes and gravy, grumbling about the lumps in both. Mycroft sat next to him. Sherlock shaking his head that he really shouldn’t have seconds of those potatoes. The old grandfather clock struck seven times.

It was a good evening. We went back to Baker Street that night, holding hands across the consol listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers and watching the snow fall.

I went to work the next morning at the flower shop. Nothing like walking up the steps and smelling the sweet mixture of orchids, norfolk pine, daisies and stephanotis. I could hear Mrs. Hudson whistling as she weeded the greenhouse number five out back. 

Anderson came in late, stomping snow off his boots. Didn't even give me shit as he went out to help Mrs. Hudson finish watering. I could have sworn Anderson was whistling "Don’t Worry, Be Happy" along with Mrs. Hudson.

The phone rang. I shoved my hands into the front pocket of my comfy old smock. So what if it made me look gay. I was. 

"Good morning, Hudson's Flowers, John speaking. How may I help you?"

"Um, I don't know... My boyfriend got up this morning and left for work without waking me. I didn't get a morning kiss and hug. Now I'm thinking maybe he's lost interest in me. You think that might be the case?"

"No. Not at all. In fact your boyfriend told me he didn't want to wake you because you looked so sweet and cuddly all scrunched up hugging that pillow with the soft light of morning kissing the curls on your forehead."

"All that flowery talk makes me wonder if he's a florist like you."

"Hm-m, could be. He also told me to tell you that if he would have kissed you before leaving, he would have ended up late for work.”

"I see. Later then?" 

“I have a late Chem class tonight, but I’m free all day tomorrow. Sorry, my other line is ringing. Got to go. Bye!"

"Bye."

"Good morning, Hudson's Flowers, John speaking. How may I help you?"

"Sure can, but I don't think phone sex would be appropriate right now. Let's say I pick you up for lunch?" 

"Sure," I said. We both laughed. "See you at 12:30."

I decided to surprise him at the library. 

I went down the dungeon stairs and there he was. I remembered another Sherlock in another universe, bent over his laptop. I rocked back and forth, digging inside the stocking. I figured I might as well. "Ah, guess— it's _red_ and _white_ and _ate_ all over."

"Um, a newspaper?"

"No, not a newspaper! It's a candy cane." Then I pulled out the peppermint cane with flourish and pointed the end of it at Sherlock for emphasis. "Can-dee cane."

"I fail to see why that’s so amusing." 

"Fine." But I ignored him and unwrapped the cane, making sure I made as much noise as a person possibly could unwrapping cellophane. I spied Sherlock watching. He yawned. _Well, that won't do,_ I thought. I stuck the hooked end of the cane into my mouth and sucked. I felt complete satisfaction as Sherlock squirmed his chair. Cheeks hollowed out, and eyes lowered. One look down at his crotch, and I knew I was making progress. After a few hot moans and tongue flicks up and down and around the crook of the cane, Sherlock was wriggling in his seat.

Sherlock lunged at me. One arm swept books on to the floor while the other grabbed the front of my Iggy Pop t-shirt. I _love_ a man of action. He slam-bammed me back flat to the table.

"Oh, my! I think you broke my peppermint stick!" I said, in mock-horror. I gave a wicked smile as I slid half of the candy cane into Sherlock’s waiting lips. "Good, huh?"

I ground my cock into his, then reached between us and began to divest myself of my button-fly jeans. Sherlock wasn't far behind, slinging his trousers down his hips, ending in a puddle at his feet.

I still had a hold of my magic stocking of tricks and waved it in front of Sherlock's eyes with gusto. My sticky fingers disappeared inside the sock and came out.

"Sex Tarts flavored lube. Comes with a convenient flip-top and in a variety of delicious flavors. I've selected Cherry Pop for this special occasion."

Sherlock whipped the lube out of my hand and popped the top.

"Oh," I said, grinning. "I see we're in a hurry. Don't let me slow you-u-u-- whoah! Help! Ack! Forced entry! Forced entry!" 

That lube sure did tingle.

"Gimme the rest of that damn cane so I can— "

"Stick that up my ass too?" I panted.

"No, so I can stick it in your mouth and shut you up."

Sherlock pounded me into the table good. My back hurt a tiny bit, but he had the perfect angle otherwise. I just managed to catch his laptop before it skidded off the table during a particularly hard thrust. Gibberish spewed out of my mouth. Guess he was worried the janitor might hear because next thing I know he clamped down on my mouth with his lips. I got plenty of special tongue action after that. Sherlock has this thing where his tongue mimics the movement of his cock. As soon as he started doing those circles with his hips and tongue, I was gone. I came all over the dungeon's sacred table. And his stomach. And Sherlock's purple shirt of sex.

After I felt a tiny bit bad for messing up his table. But just a tiny bit. Seeing his cheeks all rosy and lips all plump made it all worthwhile. He pulled me off the sacred grounds by giving me his hand. We were stuck together for a moment. I giggled. He kissed me again and wiped off our mess with his shirt.  _ Guess I'm doing laundry tonight. _

"Oh," I remembered. "I have one more gift for you in my stocking." I bent down to pick it off the floor where it landed during our throes of passion. Sherlock slapped my lily-white ass as I bent over, and I yelped as I picked it up. "No fair!"

"Ok, Santa. What else do you have?"

I held it up in front of his face. A rose. Not Mica, but red with thorns. 

He smiled. He still didn’t remember, and I was starting to forget. 

I sighed. At least we still were.

——————--

It was in the spring. We were walking in the garden together, holding hands, sun warming us, the leaves crackling under our sneakers. The previous year still hung about, the last fall’s rose hips resembling miniature apples on the vines. I’d be taking summer classes, but was on break. I’d taken a leave from the flower shop to be a full-time student. I was going to be a doctor, and I’d applied to med school. I hadn’t heard anything yet, but Sherlock said I was destined be a healer. I was glad for the break. I hadn’t had enough time to spend with the band or Sherlock as I would have liked. 

We walked under the trellis, near the back of the house. Sherlock reached out to one of the new shoots when a thorn caught him. Like a supernova, it all came back to me that I’d been little-by-little forgetting. At times, I thought it was a blessing to be unaware, but as Sherlock frowned and plucked the thorn from his wrist, I realized it might be a curse because it was happening to me now.

Sherlock froze and blinked. “John, I remember!”

I held my breath. So many times I’d wished he’d say those words, so many times I'd wished he’d know. Some of what we experienced was terrifying, but so much more was wonderful. His long lashes blinked again slowly and his eyes turned to mine.

“What exactly do you remember?” I asked.

“All of it. Heaven in wildflowers, universes in grains of sand, you and I on the beach. That you changed it all in the end, here in this very spot where we’re standing. His body is right there under your feet. Moriarty at rest.”

“Yes. She took him in the end. She’s with him. He’s the sand and the garden. He’s with Mica.”

Sherlock nodded. “We have much to talk about. To remember.”

I smiled. “We do. And a future.” I bent down and picked the thorn up off the ground. No more forgetting. Not for us. And Mica? No, not a curse. A godsend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit I've been anxious over this last chapter. Please take a moment to comment and let me know how you feel. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

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